


Liberty In Death

by QuintessentiallyBritish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Not Beta Read, Post Reichenbach, The return of Sherlock holmes, based on the short story "The Adventure of the Empty House", future John Watson/Mary Morstan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 82,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuintessentiallyBritish/pseuds/QuintessentiallyBritish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence. The question is: what can you make people believe that you have done?”<br/>Sir Arthur Conan Doyle</p><p>A murder under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances brings John's past back when DI Sophie Hunter knocks on his door seeking for his assistance. But finding a killer is just part of what John will face for someone else has taken an interest on this case... Someone who is believed to be dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and its knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> This is my first attempt to write for this fandom so, be gentle, please?
> 
> I've been writing this for almost four months now and I decided (with a bit of encouragement) to finally post it.
> 
> Also, I didn't want to mess up with Doyle's characters so I decided to come up with one of my own. I hope you don't mind... much.

_"Liberty in death, isn't that the expression? The only true freedom."  
_ Sherlock Holmes, The Hounds of Baskerville

#

Prologue

 

**30 March 2013**

 

The clock on the wall indicated it was almost eleven thirty in the evening and the activities at the Scotland Yard force hadn't ceased yet. Not that they ever did.

     "Sir, we've got a case," announced a tired-looking Sergeant Sally Donovan after knocking on the door of her superior's office.

     "What is it?" asked an equally spent Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. It was late and they've been stuck with desk duty for God knows how long after another busy day at the office, but the whole 'sitting and filling reports' was starting to take its toll on them. It was tedious and it only made the tiredness more evident as the minutes dragged by. That is until now.

     "A body was found in Park Lane."

     Those four words, _'a body was found'_ , made the Detective Inspector sit straight on his chair and push it away from his desk. "How long?"

     "Phone call just came in."

     "Do we know who the victim is?" Lestrade asked as he grabbed the heavy coat that he had placed on the back of his chair and shrugged it on.

     "Yes, sir. Victim is Ronald Adair."

     Lestrade, who was walking around his desk to meet with Sergeant Donovan at the door, stopped dead on his tracks. "Are you sure of it?"

     "That's what I was told," Sally replied, voice steady and unwavering.

     Greg Lestrade cursed everything and everyone in his mind. Ronald Adair. He would be damned.

     "Does the press know?"

     Silence permeated into the room and even after Sally shook her head in a negative, Lestrade knew it was only a matter of time.

     "Well, let's get moving," he said, adjusting the coat on his shoulders. "Better get there before those... _vultures_..."

     It was old news that the Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, along with the entire personnel that worked for the Scotland Yard, nourished a very delicate relationship with the press and media in general. He respected the fact that they were doing their jobs, but he couldn't stand how their involvement in some cases only made things harder than they already were. However, ever since that fateful twelfth of June, Lestrade's dislike towards the press had increased significantly.

     One minute, everyone was praising the Reichenbach Hero, and the very next, he was being openly attacked and no one —not one single person involved in that world of avarice and frivolity— said one word in defense of a man that was no longer able to defend himself.

     It was despicable what they did to a person that had helped so many; it was undeniable that the consulting detective in question was a constant pain in the ass, but it didn't change the fact that he was a great man. He had said so himself, once.

     When they were investigating what seemed to be a case of serial suicides, Lestrade told Dr. John Watson that Sherlock was a great man. And even now, after everything that the newspapers insisted on saying about him, after everything that Donovan and Anderson had said about Sherlock Holmes and how he was a psychopath, Greg Lestrade still believed that Sherlock Holmes was a great man.

     "Sir... are you- going to call someone?"

     Sally Donovan's question pulled the Detective Inspector out of his train of thoughts. Blinking a couple of times, he looked away from his phone that he'd been holding and found her dark eyes fixed on him. Curious eyes.

     Without even noticing, Lestrade had been browsing through his contacts, and was now staring at the ones with the surname starting with the letter H.

     "Yes," he said, quickly finding the number and pressing the dial button. "God knows we could use a pair of fresh eyes..."

     He meant it. They could seriously use a pair of fresh eyes, especially when the case was about one of the richest families of the United Kingdom. What he didn't mean was to feel a twist in his stomach when he saw a particular name on his phone.

**HOLMES, Sherlock.**

     It's been quite a long time, and Lestrade still kept the consulting detective's number on his contact list.

#

Chapter One

 

The brightness coming from the flat screen was the only source of light inside the medium sized flat at Baker Street.

     In consideration to the other people that lived in that building, the volume of the telly was kept very low since it was almost midnight, but not too low so that no one could hear it.

     The lone figure standing in front of the big window took a sip from a cup of tea that had been sitting on top of a shiny black grand piano while hearing an enthusiastic reporter from the international news channel talk about the conflict in Nigeria that extended for five days now and had left over twenty five victims already.

     Horrible, indeed, but there was only so much that could be done; the people were unhappy with their government, and the ones who could do anything about that were too busy keeping their eyes closed and their backs turned to the problems of the less fortunate. Things wouldn’t change until that arrangement changed.

     Another sip from the warm tea and the enthusiastic reporter was substituted by a woman whose tone was significantly softer. But the person standing in front of the window had stopped hearing whatever it was that they were talking about now and reached for the phone that sat next to the tea set.

     The bright screen of the device was showing off a local and well-known number. The name "DI LESTRADE" could be read right above the numbers.

     "Taking the graveyard shift again, Detective Inspector... Might I ask what happened?"

     There was a very brief moment of silence where no other words were uttered and the now silent figure just stood there, hearing to what was it that Detective Inspector Lestrade had to say; it should be something important, otherwise he wouldn't be calling at such late hours.

 _"We've got a body,"_ he said solemnly. _"427 Park Lane. Ronald Adair is dead."_

     Ronald Adair. Oh, the press would have so much fun with that.

     "I'm on my way."

—

It was little past midnight when a black Land Rover Freelander 2 parked right behind a police car; within seconds, a tall figure walked out of it and with long strides approached a uniform officer that was standing a few yards from the imposing building that was the number 427 at Park Lane.

     "I'm looking for Detective Inspector Lestrade."

     The young officer didn't have the chance to say anything, for the very next moment, a female voice could be heard.

     "Hunter." It was Sergeant Sally Donovan; she was leaving the house. "Got here fast..."

     "No traffic this late," the newcomer, Hunter, replied nonchalantly as Sally approached to join them.

     "Right..."

     The three of them suddenly fell silent, and the most uncomfortable one was the young man in uniform. He kept looking at the other two, not really sure if he should do anything or just mind his own business.

     "You can go now, Jones," said Donovan. "I've got this."

     Not really waiting to see if the Sergeant would change her mind, Officer Jones muttered a "yes ma'am" before dashing off.

     "Lestrade is inside," Sally said after only a couple of seconds, indicating the big house behind her with a small nod. "Talking to the victim's mother and sister... The mother found the body."

     "When?" Hunter asked sternly. Instinctively, she looked around, studying the place.

     Park Lane was a fancy street. All houses were big and they all belonged to wealthy families. And Ronald Adair was no exception.

     His father, Earl Adair of Maynooth, was an important figure, not only in London, but also overseas, for he was currently working at the British Embassy in Australia, where Ronald, along with his mother and sister, lived before Mrs. Adair returned to the United Kingdom with their children for medical reasons.

     The sole fact that Ronald Adair was the son of such influential man could be motive for the crime, but jumping to conclusions before gathering all the facts was not Hunter's style.

     "Not too long ago." Donovan's voice brought the newcomer attention back to the case itself. "Approximately eleven twenty, which was when we got the call... but come on. Let's get inside."

     "I am right behind you."

 

Sally Donovan led the way through the ample living room, where Lestrade was talking to two women (one older and one considerably younger), up the stairs and into a room on the second floor.

     "The room was preserved," Sally said out of habit. "Nothing has been touched."

     But it was as if she was talking to the wall, because Hunter barely nodded while reaching out to take the pair of latex gloves that one of the members of the forensics team was offering.

     Sergeant Sally Donovan shook her head and tried not to make any comparisons, but she couldn't deny the fact that, sometimes, Hunter reminded her an awful lot of a particular consulting detective that had passed long ago.

     _God forbid we have another Sherlock amongst us,_ she mused to herself quietly. _One was bad enough..._

     Inhaling deeply a couple of times to push away that thought, Donovan was just about to go after her superior when he emerged from the stairs.

     "Hunter?" Lestrade asked Donovan as he closed the small distance between them.

     "Already inside," Sally replied, indicating the sitting room behind her with a small nod.

     Greg Lestrade simply nodded in return as he took a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his coat and walked through the door.

     Even though he'd been there before, Lestrade found himself surveying the room that was now a crime scene. He was standing at the entrance of an ample room, with hard wood floor. A big bookcase covered the left wall and two smaller ones were placed beside the fireplace on the right one; the wall opposite the door had nothing but three big windows.

     Much like the rest of the house, Ronald's sitting room was far from ordinary. The furnishing was simple but classy: there were two dark brown armchairs and a small sofa near the right shelf, a big mahogany desk to the left and two Persian rugs were placed beneath the seemingly expensive furniture.

     It was a rather charming room, when you ignored the dead body that lay on the floor, next to the fancy desk.

     After a moment inspecting the crime scene, Greg Lestrade stepped further into the place. He was working for the Scotland Yard for a very long time, but he would never get used to walk into a crime scene and not feel his stomach turn into knots — the day he didn't feel bad about it, would be the day he'd hand over his badge.

     He stopped as he reached the corpse of Ronald Adair, eyes fixed on the person that was crouched right next to him.

     "... cause of death is likely to be a gunshot to the head," he heard Anderson rambling on. "The forensics team extracted a mushroomed bullet from one of the books. It was covered in blood..."

     The man kept talking and talking, but Greg could tell he was speaking to no one.

     Clearing his throat, Greg addressed Anderson a pointed look which the dark haired man correctly understood as a sign for him to stop talking. He watched as the man in a blue gown walked away, giving him some privacy and then turned to look at the dead body.

     Lestrade was greeted with a pair of brown eyes staring back at him.

     "I'm glad you came, Sophie."

     The owner of said pair of brown eyes offered Greg a small smile. Sophie Hunter was her name; she was a tall woman in her early thirties, slender body, fair complex and long, wavy brown hair that reached the middle of her back, but was pulled up in a rather messy pony tail.

    Greg Lestrade had met Sophie less than a year ago. Back then, she was the newest detective working for the Scotland Yard, and they got to work in a case that had required quite the effort from the British Police. A serial killer was victimizing little kids and they had to assemble a few detectives in order to put the criminal behind bars before too many innocent lives were taken. They were able to arrest the killer before he could make his seventh victim. It was a high number, but they did their best with all the resources they had.

     After that, Lestrade and Hunter worked together a few times, and every now and then, when he needed an opinion from someone who wasn't directly involved in a case, Sophie was his go-to guy (or in this case, girl).

    "You better be," she replied lightly. "A phone call on my day off at nearly midnight? You should be delighted."

     The smallest of all smiles settled on his thin lips and Greg looked down for a second. "Sorry about that," he said truthfully. "But I needed a pair of fresh eyes..."

     "Don't apologise," Sophie said softly and reassuring. "I was joking, I didn't mean any of that. I understand. Earl Adair's son... Does the press know?"

     That was the first thing that Greg had questioned when Sally told him who the victim was. "Not yet," he answered; his tone low and measured.

     "Only a matter of time," Sophie mused to herself. "Okay. Do you have a theory already, or...?" She asked as she straightened up and let her eyes travel around the room.

     But, before the Detective Inspector could answer Sophie's question, Anderson spoke. "What about suicide?"

     Both Greg and Sophie turned so they were looking at the forensic man who was standing a few feet away from them, next to the desk.

     "Suicide?" Sophie asked blankly.

     "Or... accidental death?"

     This time, Sophie didn't even try to conceal how she felt about all that. "Accidental death," she echoed his words. Her eyes were wide open and her eyebrows were arched in surprise.

     Sophie and Lestrade exchanged a quick look and she could tell, just by the way he was standing and how his head was slightly bowed, that he wished the man hadn't opened his mouth. "All right then... and may I ask why would you suggest such things?"

     "The victim was owner of fire weapons," Anderson said pointing to something that lay on the bookcase right behind the desk.

     Sophie let her eyes wander to where the Forensic man had pointed out. The bookcase had been custom made to fit that precise room and had five shelves for books, three pairs of small doors on the bottom and in between them, there was a fairly big compartment where a handful of fire arms lay neatly displayed behind a sliding glass door.

     "Like I said before, he died from a gunshot wound," he carried on a few seconds later. "And there's ammunition on the desk as you can see," he said gesturing towards the same desk he was standing in front of.

     Indeed he was right. Lying on the desk, along with a few bank-notes and some papers that Ronald should have been going through at some point prior his death, there were shell cases and an interesting variety of cartridges of different calibers and weapons. And she wasn't going to bet that neither of those weren't a perfect match to the bullet they retrieved from one of the books.

     "Okay," Sophie said with a short nod. "Keep going."

     "Maybe he killed himself," Anderson said in a much firmer voice. "And someone else hid the murder weapon before we got here, or maybe he was cleaning it or... someone was handling one of them and it accidentally went off. Either way, if the room was locked from the inside as they all say, should be one of those things, don't you think?"

     For a couple of seconds, Sophie didn't say anything, nor did Lestrade for that matter. Silence settled upon them, as if they were processing what Anderson had suggested.

     "I think we still have to go through a few standard procedures, make some observations and check a few things, but we'll consider all possibilities," Sophie said kindly. "Thank you, Anderson."

     The dark haired man opened a smile and replied with a rather cheerful "you're welcome" before Lestrade assigned him with something else, somewhere else.

     "Do you really think this could be the case of a suicide or... accidental death?" the Detective Inspector asked very curiously when the forensic man walked out of the room with his team, leaving the two of them alone.

     "Not for one second," Sophie replied immediately.

     "Then, what was that all about?"

     "I just said what he wanted to hear." The corner of Sophie's lips turned up and she smiled devilishly at the older detective. "Or else he wouldn't shut up."

     Greg Lestrade couldn't hold back a smile and he even let out a soft chuckle as he shook his head. "Clever," he admitted while trying to stop smiling. He was standing in the middle of a crime scene and a dead body was still lying on the ground; he shouldn't be smiling. "Very clever..."

     "Thank you," she said softly. But then, her tone changed rather drastically and she was completely serious the very next second. "Although I have to admit," she added while walking through the room with small and slow steps. "Anderson wasn't wrong about everything..."

     "How come?" Lestrade questioned intrigued. He followed her closely, paying attention to his surroundings. "What was he right about?"

     "If the room was locked from the inside, the odds that it was one of those things would be sky high."

     Lestrade frowned as he thought about what Sophie had just said. "Hold on... what is it that you're saying? Because I'm not sure I..."

     "Donovan was wrong when she said the crime scene had been preserved," Sophie stated. "It was tampered."

     "The crime scene was _what_?!" Lestrade couldn't believe his own ears. What was it that Sophie had said? "Tampered?"

     "I believe so. Yes," she answered simply.

     That couldn't be. It was a nightmare when people changed the crime scene for it only made things more complicated for them...

     "Are you sure?" he asked expectantly, although he didn't have any hopes to hear a denial in response. Said and done.

     "Yes," she said, yet again, her voice did not waver with hesitation. "Someone closed the window..."

     "Someone closed _a_ window," Sophie mused to herself as she stood in front of the ten foot tall middle window. She glanced at the three openings on the wall and squinted softly. "But which one?" she asked herself, voice barely above a whisper.

     "Wait a minute," Lestrade said, taking a step forward to stand by her side. "The window?"

     "Yes," she replied absently.

     "So, are you saying that someone else could've been here?"

     He looked at her with expectant eyes; if that was it, then things would start to make some sense, because up until now, this case was as strange as it gets. But when Sophie answered him, his hopes were crushed — if he had ever dared to have any.

     "No," she said with a shake of her head. "Highly doubt that... If someone else was here and they would have left through the window and the bushes of roses beneath this window would be disturbed, but they're impeccable."

     It wasn't that Lestrade didn't believe her, but since it was half past midnight and he'd been on coffee for way too long, he walked over the window to glance at the roses she'd mentioned. He hadn't even noticed them in the first place.

     "How did you...?"

     "Saw it when I arrived," she explained blankly, while she turned around to assess the entire room.

     Lestrade looked at the woman that was now standing there, studying the room very attentively. With her dark hair, that dark coat and how she was able to pick small details that sometimes would go unnoticed for some people, for a brief moment, he wondered if it was possible that she was some sort of female version of the infamous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.

     The DI then laughed inwardly. There was no one quite like Holmes.

     "But, Hunter," Lestrade called her after a second or two. "Why do you think the window was open?"

     She turned again on her heels so she was looking at him. "Because of the embers in the fireplace."

     Lestrade's eyes landed on the fireplace where a small fire was making the wood crept.

     It was March and while it wasn't as cold as January, it wasn't surprising the fact that someone had started a fire to keep the room warm.

     "With that amount of ember," Sophie said, pulling Lestrade out of his thoughts. "The fire must have been burning for a while... but the room doesn't smell like smoke. Well, it does actually, but it's mild compared to what could have been if there was no ventilation."

     _Makes perfect sense,_ Lestrade thought to himself. If he weren't so tired, maybe he could have noticed that himself. That's why he called her in, because he knew that a pair of fresh eyes could make the difference.

     Lestrade snapped his fingers when something occurred to him. "The maid, perhaps? At the very least, she must have been the one that opened the window."

     Sophie offered the fellow detective an encouraging smile. "Sounds about right."

     "I'll go talk to her... are you coming?"

     "Not yet," she declined politely. "I want to look around some more, see if there's anything pertinent."

     Lestrade nodded. "Okay. I'll be right back then."

 

The brunette paced through the place, meticulously examining the room until she finally knelt next to Ronald Adair's body.

     Being a detective for the Scotland Yard and having previously worked for the law enforcement, Sophie Hunter was no stranger to brutal cases and strong images of crime scenes. But it wouldn't matter how many times she'd seen this sort of things, she didn't think she'd ever get used to it.

     As she examined the body once more, Sophie found herself bringing her right hand to her mouth. Whatever happened there, it had left quite the horror scene. The left side of the victim's head had been horribly mutilated by a hollow-point bullet, not to mention there were fragments of what Sophie assumed to be skull along with brain matter and blood all over the expensive Persian rug and parts of the bookcase as well... It was something that no one would ever want to see, and Sophie could only imagine what Mrs. Adair must have felt when she found her son like that.

     Taking a deep breath, the brunette detective proceeded to check the victim's body, in hopes to find something in his clothes that would shed some light upon that gruesome case since no weapons of any sorts were found.

     She checked the pockets of his trousers, searching for something from a note or a mobile phone, but there was nothing in there and she moved onto the other place she thought she could find anything.

     Standing up, Sophie walked towards the desk. Much like the bookcase and the rug, there was blood splattered over it. A more detailed investigation showed Sophie that, along with the bank-notes and random shell cases, there was also a list with a few names and figures, all separated by club, and there were three of them. Apparently, Ronald Adair had a thing for card games and money.

 

"I spoke with the maid," announced Lestrade as he re-entered the room and pulled Sophie out of her train of thoughts. "She said she when she lit the fire, she also opened the middle window. The mother said, after she and the chauffeur, George Lewis, forced the door and found her son's body, Mr. Lewis closed it because it was drizzling and they were afraid the water would compromise the scene."

     "Did you speak with the chauffeur" It was an automatic question, to which Lestrade already had an answer.

     "Yes, I did. He was with Mrs. Adair and her daughter the entire day. He wasn't home when it happened and has no idea why such thing would happen to Ronald Adair."

     Sophie nodded. "We got statements from everyone who was in the house when it happened," Lestrade continued. "And they were the maid, Mrs. Angeline Walsh and the butler, Mr. Gerard Atherton. They didn't hear anything whatsoever."

     Lestrade was looking at the younger detective and was slightly taken aback when she looked up from the top drawer of the desk that she was going through and stared at him blankly.

     "What?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed.

     "Gerard Atherton you said?"

     "Yes...?" Lestrade confirmed hesitantly. "What about him? Did you find anything on him?"

     "You mean, except for the fact that he's the butler?"

     Lestrade was about to reply to what she'd said when he noticed the right corner of lip turning upwards and he rolled his eyes.

     "All right, so you think it was the butler in the study room with, what? A semi-automatic with a suppressor?"

     Sophie let out an amused chuckle. "I wish things were this easy..."

     "Yeah. You and me both," Lestrade said; his tone as light as Sophie's.

     How on Earth she managed to do that in a crime scene with a body right next to them was beyond his understanding, but there should be a special place in hell for them for being so careless in a place like that.

     "I've also learned that Ronald was engaged to a woman named Edith Woodley," Lestrade continued. "The mother said they broke off the engagement by mutual consent months ago..."

     "I'm assuming you already put someone to dig Edith Woodley's past," Sophie said, her attention turned to the drawers once more.

     "Donovan will run background check."

     "Okay..."

     "How about you? Find anything useful?"

     The woman looked up from the drawer and her lips were showing a very strange smile; it wasn't a harmless smile, it was almost as if she was having fun with that — too much fun actually. Lestrade felt a shiver running down his spine at the sight of that.

     "Have a look at this," she said, holding out a piece of paper.

     Feeling more than slightly hesitant, Lestrade reached out and took the paper from Sophie's hands. The sheet had some red stains that he knew all too well what they were, but it wasn't the blood that caused his eyes to widen. It was something else.

     "Good Lord," he muttered as he finished reading the notes that Ronald had written there. "You don't think..."

     "Any of them are involved? Lestrade, you know me well enough not to ask this... But do I think we should check these? Bloody hell, yes. Ronald Adair was wealthy, but what about the others? Could they afford losing all that money? We're talking about five figures here. Look."

     Lestrade sighed. He had looked. And he had wished he was blind when he did so.

     Why couldn't Anderson be right about that case? A suicide or accidental death sounded a lot better than _that_.

     "You're right," he gave in. Not that he had much of a choice, which he had not. "Tomorrow morning, we'll check them."

     "Works for me."

     The older Detective Inspector was ready to leave that crime scene and have some well deserved (and much needed rest) when the familiar female voice spoke again.

     "Remember the case that that friend of yours helped with the investigation a while back?" Sophie asked. "The one where the private detective was able to link two dead men to a Chinese smuggling ring? It was all over the news..."

     "Yes," Lestrade answered warily. It hadn't been his case, but he knew what she was talking about. And who. "What about it?"

     "Do you still have contact with him?"

     Lestrade inhaled deeply and, for a couple of seconds, he remained in silence. "The private detective you're referring to... he, uh— he is dead, Sophie."

     "Oh, no," she said quickly. "I was not talking about Mr. Holmes. I read about his death... Sorry. I was talking about the other one. His sidekick or whatever he was... Dr Watson?"

     The older detective's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "John Watson?"

     "Yes," Sophie confirmed. "John Watson. Do you think you could contact him?"

     "Why?"

     "I'd like to have a chat with him."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and its knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Also, I forgot to mention this before but English isn't my first language and this story hasn't been Beta read so apologies for whatever errors and mistakes you might find while reading. And just so we're clear, this is NOT a John Watson/OC story.

  **Chapter Two**

 

**31 March 2013**

 

It's been almost a year.

     More precisely, it's been nine months and eighteen days since the fatidic events of that particular evening at St. Bart’s... A day that Dr John Watson would never forget. No matter how long he lived, he would always remember that one day as if it was yesterday.

     For a while, he thought he wanted to forget. Just erase everything from his memory. It was hard to remember the day his friend, his _best friend_ , died a horrific death and it was even harder to deal with what happened next. All the newspapers trashing the private detective's name, minimizing everything he had done, saying he was a fraud and all sorts of things... After he stepped off the roof of Bart’s Hospital, Sherlock Holmes quickly became a villain, and it had been hard for John.

     The first two months were by far the worst. Less than a week after Sherlock's allegedly suicide, the press came down on Watson like vultures over carcasses. They wanted to know what he had to say about the "so-called detective" and if he ever had any participation in his rise to fame, if he had helped Sherlock to create this infamous character with abilities that were beyond anything any men could do and anything else they could think of.

     Sure no man could do what Sherlock did, but that didn't mean Sherlock was a character — he was not. The man was a genius! And in his friend's own words, the people from the media, "they were stupid and wrong", but John Watson would go further and say: the journalists that harassed him night and day were the worst kind of stupid that had ever lived. And that was John being overly polite.

     Because they were. Stupid. And wrong. All of them. Big bloody stupid people.

     But, just like all good things come to an end; all the bad ones did also. After a while, the subject of Sherlock Holmes began to lose its strength and people started to let go.

     Gradually, there were no more reporters wanting to pry something from John that would add more stains to the late private detective's already ruined image and reputation, no more messages from people saying how much of a lie Sherlock Holmes had been and how much of a moronic idiot John Watson was. With time, the people of London finally let Sherlock rest in peace, and very reluctantly, so did John.

     For longer than he cared to admit, John Watson had believed that his friend, that Sherlock Holmes wasn't dead. How could he be? A man like Sherlock wouldn't just check out like that. He wouldn't. Despite Moriarty's suicide —there was that also, but obviously, thanks to that Kitty Riley journalist, James Moriarty wasn't James Moriarty; he was an actor and it just added to the already ruined image of Sherlock Holmes, now how convenient was that?—, Sherlock wouldn't have killed himself. It didn't make any sense, and God knows Sherlock was all about _making sense_. What was in it for him, in killing himself? Nothing. There was absolutely nothing that would justify jumping off a building.

     Moriarty was dead. As always, all that Sherlock had to do was to find a way to prove that Richard Brook had never existed, that Jim Moriarty was real and not just some product of his mischievous imagination, created for his own purposes and things would be all right, and if there was one person in the whole world that could do that was Sherlock. So there was no need for that. No plausible explanations that would ever make that suicide make sense. Ever.

     But he did. He did jump, and he asked him to watch it. And what he'd seen there, he would never forget. His best friend, lying on the pavement, blood all over, no pulse...

     Still, John couldn't help but hold onto hope —as minimal, unrealistic and frail as it could be— that Sherlock must have figured something with that big brain of his and he should have found a way out of that mess.

     For too long, Watson believed Sherlock must have been living somewhere else, enjoying anonymity with Elvis Presley or something... But days turned into weeks that turned into months and not one single word from Sherlock have been heard, or read, or seen on the sky as a smoke signal. If Sherlock was alive, he would've found a way of telling John... would he not?

     Yes. Yes, he would. Because he had said so himself: he didn't have any friends. John was his only friend. And even Sherlock should've known that you don't do things like that to friends. He _knew_ that friends protect people, so he would have said something to John.

     So when he didn't, when there were no traces of Sherlock for months after that day at St. Bart’s, as much as it pained John, he began to let go. All the hoping and waiting had dragged out too long and he needed to let go. He stopped feeding up hopes that Sherlock Holmes would just show up someday saying that they had a case and calling him an idiot and... moved on.

     It took him a long time, but eventually, John started to adjust his life. It was a strange life —without the Army and without his peculiar flat mate— but he had a job, at the Royal London Hospital now. He had been offered a job with surgery at St Bart’s, but he thought it was just too painful to walk through those sidewalks every day and turned the offer down. Practicing medicine again helped John keep his mind and his days busy. With time, he noticed that the pain lessened and, eventually, he began to accept things as they were.

     And he was doing a rather remarkable job at that; he had put his past on the past where it belonged, so he was more than slightly surprised when he received a phone call, at six o'clock on a Sunday morning, from the Scotland Yard.

 

At the sound of knocks on his door, John Watson placed the newspaper on the small coffee table that sat in the middle of his new residency: a simple yet comfortable flat at Great James Street, Bloomsbury.

     Even though he was doing great with the whole moving on thing, the idea of continue to live at 221B Baker Street sounded way too... morbid. Everything about that place screamed Sherlock, and even though he'd dealt with post-traumatic stress disorder, he didn't think he could deal with _that_. So, with the money he and Sherlock had earned and the income from his job at the Royal London, John was able to rent a small flat, in a very pleasant area in London.

     With small and unhurried steps, John stood from his armchair and crossed the room until he reached the door.

     In all honesty, the former Army doctor expected to find Greg on the other side —since he had been the one to call him—, but instead, he found himself looking at a woman he had positively never seen before.

     "Doctor John Watson?" she asked a few seconds after he'd opened the door.

     John cleared his throat and shook his head softly as he took a deep breath. "Uh— yes," he answered quickly. "Yes, I am John Watson. You are...?"

     "Detective Inspector Sophie Hunter," she replied pulling something from inside her navy blue pea coat; an ID badge that he'd seen a few times before. "Scotland Yard."

     Even though he had received a phone call from Lestrade, when she said the words Detective Inspector and Scotland Yard, John couldn't contain his surprise. "Oh... I've, uh— I was sort of expecting someone else, but okay. I, uh... is there something wrong, Detective?"

     "Yes and no," she replied as she placed her badge back where it belonged.

     As she did so, John couldn't help but watch her. Her long curly hair framed her face and the darkness of her locks made her skin look almost like porcelain. Her cheeks had a light shade of pink to them, her lips were reddish and when she looked back at him, he was lost for a moment in her long eyelashes and dark brown eyes.

     "I know it's early," she spoke once again, pulling Watson from his trance. "And I am really sorry about that, but can I have a word with you, Dr Watson?"

     "Ehm... Sure," he agreed as he stood aside and opened the door even further. "Please," he said, gesturing towards the interior of his flat. "Come on in."

     Offering the gentle man a smile, Sophie muttered a polite "thank you" and an "excuse me" as she stepped inside his flat.

     "Please," John said as he closed the door behind them then walked her towards the dark brown sofa. "Have a seat. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea, maybe?"

     "Oh, no, thank you. I'm fine," she replied while walking around the coffee table and accommodating herself on the left end of the sofa.

     John nodded and occupied the grey armchair in which he was sitting just seconds ago as he read the newspaper.

     "So," he said. It was an extremely comfortable armchair the one he was sitting, but in that moment, it was feeling slightly far from that. As a matter of fact, he didn't feel one bit comfortable. Not that he had any problems with the justice; it was just that having someone from the Scotland Yard at his place... It was something that once was familiar, but he had distanced himself from that so it felt a bit strange. "Can I help you with anything... Detective Hunter?"

     "I hope so," Sophie said as she looked up to meet the doctor's blue eyes.

     During those brief seconds in which Dr Watson accommodated himself on his armchair, Sophie had noticed the newspaper on the coffee table and it was open on the page that one could read about the one case she was now working on, in association with Lestrade.

     "I see you've read about Ronald Adair's death," she said, indicating the newspaper.

     "Yeah," replied Watson. "I was just seeing it. Quite horrible."

     Sophie took a deep breath as the images of the crime scene flashed before her eyes. "Quite horrible indeed," she agreed with him. "And it's also why I'm here for..."

     John furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head to the right softly. "What? I mean... You're here because of Ronald Adair...?"

     "Yes," she said in confirmation.

     "Why? I mean, I didn't know him. I've never—"

     But before a confused John Watson could finish his sentence and tell the detective that he had never even seen the man in question, Sophie Hunter shook her head and interrupted him.

     "No, Doctor Watson," she began. "No. I may have not explained things properly. I am here because of Mr. Adair's death, but I'm not here because I think you are a person of interest or a suspect in the case."

     John's confusion only increased rather than diminished as he heard and processed what detective Hunter was saying. "Then...?"

     As she sat there and looked into Watson's eyes, Sophie felt an unusual hesitation taking over her. She had been thinking about this moment over night; she was about to bring a complicated subject into their conversation and she didn't know what was the least invasive and damaging way of referring to it, especially when she and John Watson were virtually strangers.

     John's blue eyes then acquired a darker shade as he watched her; she was silent. Way too silent, and that's when Sophie knew there was no easy way to do this. Letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding, Sophie let her eyes look elsewhere for a second.

     "I can't think of another way of approaching the subject so I'll just go for it," she finally said, bringing herself to look at the man sitting across from her once more. "I'd like to ask for your... assistance."

     John shifted in his seat and his eyes widened in surprise. "Oh... My assistance? But, uh— why would need my assistance? Or what would you need me for?"

     "I'd like you to have a look at Adair's case."

     "You mean the body? Detective Hunter, I'm no—"

     "I mean the case," she said flatly, and with quite the emphasis on the word 'case'.

     Noticing the puzzled look John was addressing her, Sophie decided to not prolong any longer and just get over with it.

     "Doctor Watson," she said in a low and measured voice. That was where things could get... uncomfortable, for lack of a better term. "I understand that you have quite an understanding when it comes to crime scenes, due to the... association and friendship you had with the late Mr. Holmes."

     Even though John had seen it coming for Sophie had made things pretty clear when she mentioned the fact that he had "quite an understanding when it comes to crime scenes", it still didn't make things easier when she mentioned Sherlock's name.

     He had been to Sherlock's grave site a couple of times during those nine, almost ten months, but it was different when someone mentioned Sherlock. Dealing with the absence of his best friend had become part of his routine... But this wasn't.

     John inhaled deeply and, for a moment or two, he didn't say a word; if anything he didn't do anything other than mentally tell himself to breathe.

     All of a sudden, he remembered when he and Sherlock had first met and then, in less than twenty four hours, he was following the consulting detective to his first crime scene. The crime scene of their first mystery solved. It felt as if an eternity had passed since that had happened. A lifetime...

     Sophie knew she was threading what could be some turbulent waters when she brought up the name of Sherlock Holmes, and she felt pretty bad when she noticed traces of sadness in John's expression. It was barely there —she had a fairly decent understanding of people's behavior to know that John Watson wasn't the kind of man who'd want other pitying him for anything; he was certainly the strong type of man—, but she was able to catch some hints of that and she knew she was the responsible for that.

     "I'm sorry," she said in a soft and sympathetic low tone. "About what happened to your friend. I am sincerely sorry."

     At first, John simply blinked and looked at the woman sitting before him. Detective Inspector Hunter had the most comprehensive look in her brown eyes and even her overall posture showed clear signs of friendliness. She was being nice to him, and that's when John noticed he must have let some of his conflicting emotions show.

     At first, he felt a bit of anger towards himself, but then, when he heard what she had to add, that anger that was beginning to show up was quickly extinguished and it gave place to perplexity.

     For a moment, John thought he had imagined what detective Hunter had said. Because until today, the number of people that had said anything slightly good about Sherlock or that had said they were sorry about what had happened was so small it could be counted in one hand and some fingers wouldn't even be used. However, there she was, a woman that, as far as John knew, had no involvements with Sherlock and yet, sounded so sincere it hurt.

     "Did you know him?" John asked. His voice was barely above a whisper but he didn't mind; he was too stunned and too intrigued to care.

     Sophie shook her head. She knew exactly who John was talking about. "I didn't have the chance to meet him," she said gently. "I heard about him, though. And read about him, as well," she added when John's eyebrows furrowed when she said she'd heard about him.

     John's reaction wasn't hard to figure out. Sophie had heard things about Sherlock, mostly through Donovan and Anderson, which she had paid no mind to. She didn't know the man, Sherlock Holmes; never had seen him personally, so she didn't want to be prejudicial of someone she knew nothing about. And regarding what she’d read…

     "Did you read the truth about Sherlock?"

     It surprised John how his question sounded so bitter. It's been a long while since that bloody reporter —Kitty Riley— had turned Sherlock into a villain, but apparently, John was still not over that.

     Nonetheless, whether his harsh words affected her or not, Sophie didn't let it show. Instead, she spoke with the same unwavering softness: "was that the truth?"

     John pursed his lips together and simply averted his eyes. He couldn't articulate an answer; not even a simple "no" managed to escape his lips. Not because he thought that was the truth about Sherlock. No. He believed in his friend and he would believe in Sherlock until the day he died. But he didn't know how to respond to that level of friendliness. He had grown accustomed with people judging his friend that Sophie caught him with his guard down when she said she didn't share everyone else's beliefs.

     "Doctor Watson," she spoke softly again and pulled John out of his thoughts. "I'll understand if you don't want to do this... but I would greatly appreciate if you should accept my request."

     John stared at the woman again for a few seconds until he spoke again. And when he did, he simply asked "Why me?"

     "Because you have a unique understanding of all aspects involved," she answered simply. "People, life... and crime scenes."

     John weighed her words for longer than he could tell, because even though the person sitting across from him wasn't Sherlock or Lestrade, all of a sudden, John felt as if his past was knocking at his door again. Sure he opened said door and invited it in, but, in his own defence, he did not know he was doing that...

     Part of John wanted to say no. No, he could not help her. He couldn't tag along and assist her with this. He just couldn't. He knew she would understand his decision, not only because she had said so herself, but because of how she asked for his help in the first place. She didn't barge through the door, badge in one hand and case file in the other; she asked for his assistance and she made sure to not bring anything with her that could lead him into agreeing with what she was requesting.

     No. She would understand. Detective Inspector Sophie Hunter would understand that what she was asking him to do was too much... it was unsettling... it was oh so tempting.

     "Doctor Watson?"

     "Yes." Looking deep inside Sophie's eyes, John gave her a short nod. "Yes, I'll do it."

—

"Jesus... is _this_ the victim?!"

     Sophie looked away from the street and let her eyes linger on the man sitting by her side.

     John Watson had been looking at the case file for no longer than fifteen seconds now and, judging by his strong reaction, he had just found the photo of the body.

     "My God, this is dreadful..."

     "Pretty disturbing," Sophie said as she turned her attention back to the streets ahead. "I felt so bad for his mother..."

     Placing the folder on his legs, John forgot about the case file for a moment. "Oh, Jesus... The mother found him," he said heavily, remembering what he had learned from the paper — the mother had found her son's lifeless body. "That poor woman..."

     "Yeah. Must have been horrendous for her to find her son like that... I mean, God knows that was one of the worst things I've ever seen, and I've seen quite a few."

     John was about to study the case files again (surely avoiding that horrible photo; it was burned to his memory anyway), but he gave up on that when his brain registered what she had just said.

     "Wait, what?" He blurted out, turning to look at the detective's profile. "Did you say _one_ of the worst things you've seen? You actually mean you've seen worst than _this_?"

     "Not exactly something I would brag about," she said as she stopped at a red light and turned to look at John once again. "But yes. Comes with the territory, I suppose."

     As he sat there and listened to Sophie, John's eyebrows furrowed deeper. "I'm sorry, but... how, uh— how long have you... been a detective?"

     He'd been curious about that ever since she pulled her badge and identified herself as a Detective Inspector with the New Scotland Yard. Even though he'd seen some young DIs, Sophie was quite young...

     "About eight months," she answered with no reservations. "But I've been working on the field for a little longer than that."

     "Oh... and may I ask what you did before?" John questioned when he noticed she didn't seem to mind his first question all that much.

     The red light turned green and Sophie put first gear and they were moving once more. With her attention focused on the traffic, she simply said, "Intelligence."

     "Intelligence?" John echoed her answer. A very non-straightforward for that matter, which allowed his mind to think through.

     "Defence Intelligence?" he asked curiously when he reached what could be a more detailed answer. But Sophie didn't respond to that; she just sat there, eyes fixed on the street.

     John didn't know what to make from that. Was it a yes? A no? Was he being too nosy? Yeah, he was probably meddling... But as soon as he reached that conclusion, something else occurred to him. "Did you work for the, uh— secret... intelligence?"

     Once again, Sophie did not say a word and was complete and utterly silent. Although, this time she did look away from the road and her eyes met John's for a brief couple of seconds, which was pretty much the equivalent of a voiced answer in John's opinion.

     His eyes went wide open as he openly stared at the woman behind the steering wheel — it was becoming a rather common reaction of his.

     "MI6?" He said after a few seconds; once he regained his ability to think straight. "You're joking... Are you joking? You've got to be joking."

     One more time, Sophie chanced a glance at the man beside her. If his reaction to her answer had been amusing to her ears, nothing would compare to the expression he had plastered on his face when she looked at him.

     John resembled a statue. A rather funny statue in Sophie's opinion. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, his blue eyes were wide open that, for a second, Sophie feared that they would simply jump out of their orbs and his mouth was hanging slightly parted. It was rather comical.

     Noticing the smile that Sophie was literally biting back, John Watson blinked a few times, trying to push aside the surprise that had engulfed him.

     "Are you okay in there, Doctor Watson?" He heard her asking cheerfully, as she turned her undivided attention back to the streets.

     "Yeah," John replied, shaking his head a couple of times in a vain attempt to make everything fall into place inside his head. Didn't work as he was expecting, but his brain was now working a bit harder. "Yeah, I'm fine... I'm fine... MI6?" He asked again. This time, he didn't zone out.

     Sophie let out a soft laugh. She had to admit, she was not expecting any of that. Usually, when people first met her, they would both objectify her and not really believe she was a detective, or they would just walk away (and this is a nice way of putting things) from her because she was a detective. With a few exceptions here and there, about 97% of the people she met would not try to get to know her better.

     "You're just messing up with me, aren't you?" John asked when he heard the soft sound of her amusement.

     "I swear to God I am not," Sophie said nonchalantly.

     "So, MI6 or DI?"

     "Crime scene," she told John as she pulled her Freelander 2 on a parking spot and killed the engine. "Off you go," Sophie cheerfully added while hopping off the car.

—

Across the street, right opposite from 427 Park Lane, a tall figure stood on the sidewalk statuesquely.

     With his hands buried inside the front pocked of his dark coat, the brooding, dark haired man solemnly watched when two people, a woman and a man, hopped off a dark Freelander 2 and walked up the three small steps that lead them towards the one house that had been isolated by the Scotland Yard.

     His piercing blue eyes followed the unusual couple until they were out of his sight, and they narrowed a bit when he recognized the man.

     What was John Watson doing there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the dates. I've found out that the dates as they are presented on the show (newspaper dates and such) are from 2010/2011. However, according to John's blog's timeline, the events would be from 2011/2012, and this is the one I'm sticking with, even though I'd rather have the first one.
> 
> If needed be, additional tags and/or warnings will be added along with each new addition.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.

  
**Chapter Three**   


It was seven thirty in the morning of a Sunday and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was currently driving his cruse through the streets of London.

     He could think of at least half a dozen things he'd rather do now other than that... But duty calls and he would like to see that case closed sooner rather than later. The press was already aware of Ronald Adair's death, so if they didn't figure it out soon, they would all be lining up by the Scotland Yard's door and that was something he was definitely not looking forward to.

     So, he woke up at seven, showered, made himself a big cup of coffee, put on his work suit, got into his car and drove. His destination — the Baldwin club.

     Now, going to the Baldwin club was also something that Greg Lestrade wasn't exactly excited about. He had nothing against places in which people hang out, but when those places involved things like money (and bets), it was different. And it just so happened that the victim, Ronald Adair, had a thing for card games and money.

     If there was one thing he learnt was that money was a damn powerful catalyst for murder, along with other things such as power, love, betrayal...

     As he approached the address he was heading towards, Lestrade pulled the paper he had copied all the information Sophie had found the other night at the crime scene. A piece of paper that contained a few annotations that the victim himself had been doing at some point prior to his murder, and all those notes told them that, before his death, Mr. Adair was endeavouring to make out his losses and winnings at cards.

     That's why Lestrade was heading to the Baldwin club. Ronald Adair was a member of such club, and he had won some ridiculous amount of money playing cards with some "club friends". That was going to be quite an annoying case, he could foresee that much.

 

Sergeant Sally Donovan was already there when Lestrade got to his destination.

     The Baldwin club was a fairly large white building with an impressive architecture that made it look like someone had taken a castle from the Renaissance era, shrunken it to the size of a small mansion and placed it there, right in the middle of the wealthy area of Richmond, London.

     Lestrade sighed heavily and looked away from the building to park his car next to Donovan's sedan. He could already tell he was not going to enjoy that.

     "Sergeant Donovan," he called for her once he stepped out of his vehicle. "Have you been here for too long?"

     Sally Donovan shook her head. "Just got here."

     Lestrade nodded solemnly. Deep down, he was expecting to hear that she had been there for a while and had already spoken with someone, but then again it was too early, barely eight in the morning...

     "All right then," he said tiredly while turning around to look at the building once more. "Let's get this over with... after all, we have two more clubs to visit."

     Sergeant Donovan smiled wryly as she followed the older man's steps towards the front door of the Baldwin club. She shared Lestrade's distaste; it wasn't rare to find some influent people in those types of associations, and influent people could be quite a pain to deal with.

     And it was said and done.

     Lestrade and Donovan had to wait for the receptionist to speak with her supervisor who had to speak with their supervisor who had to speak with God knows who else... Judging by the amount of time they had to wait for all that conversation to happen, it seemed as if they had to speak with the Queen herself and the entire Parliament. If anything, Donovan believed it would've taken less time to speak with Her Majesty than it did to speak with the president of the Baldwin club.

     They had been asked to wait for Mr. Adkins in a fairly large sitting room, where a fire was already lit and, surprisingly enough, tea had been served. Although they weren't there to get warm or have tea; they were there to investigate the death of Ronald Adair, so, despite all the pleasantries, after about ten minutes, both Lestrade and Donovan were tired of being in that place and they were thirsty for answers.

     "Detective Inspector, I am profoundly sorry for keeping you waiting..."

     Simultaneously, Lestrade and Donovan turned around. Finally someone other than George Hastings —the man who had received them soon after they set a foot into the club— had walked through those doors. They found themselves looking at a man in his late fifties probably, tall, grey hair, green eyes, wearing an expensive suit that fitted his rather athletic body perfectly and shiny black shoes. The man was the epitome of luxury — clearly he belonged there.

     "I am Richard Adkins," the man introduced himself, reaching out a hand as he approached the Detective. "President of the Baldwin club."

     "Detective Inspector Lestrade," Greg quickly introduced himself, then, he indicated Sally and added unceremoniously: "this is Sergeant Donovan, Scotland Yard and we would like to ask you a few questions."

     Richard Adkins solemnly agreed with a short nod. "All right, anything you need. But... may I ask what this is about?"

     Both Lestrade and Donovan exchanged a look.

     "One of the members of your club died last night," Lestrade said flatly; eyes fixed on the man before him once more. "Ronald Adair."

     As soon as he heard those words, Richard Adkins's eyes widened. "Ronald? Oh my God... How?"

     The surprise and shock that was stamped on Mr. Adkins's face were not bogus. Lestrade doubted that even Sir Ian McKellen would be able to force all the colour off of his face; well, maybe Sir Ian McKellen _would_ be able to do that all right, but Richard Adkins was not an actor, and Lestrade knew that because last night, as soon as he left the crime scene, he had ran background check on the president of the Baldwin club. Nothing came out of it.

     "That's what we're investigating," said Sergeant Donovan. "Do you know if Mr. Adair had a problem with any of the other members? Or anyone else?"

     Richard Adkins fidgeted for a few seconds before answering a shaky "No, not that I know of." He then looked at Lestrade and the look in his eyes was still one of shock.

     _That man probably had nothing to do with Adair's death,_ the DI thought to himself.

     "Why would anyone hurt Adair?" Mr. Adkins asked, trying to keep his voice even.

     "Like Sergeant Donovan just said," Lestrade spoke simply. "It's an ongoing investigation... Did Mr. Adair came to you club yesterday?"

     Richard's face contorted into a thoughtful expression. "Yesterday? No... No, he did not. On weekends, Mr. Adair usually comes— came on Sundays, for brunch."

     "Brunch with his card mates?" asked Donovan.

     "He, uh... he would have brunch with his card companions, yes. But it's not always."

     Lestrade inhaled deeply. Sure they still had nothing, but maybe things could change. What was it that Hunter had said the night before — _Ronald Adair was wealthy, but what about the others? Could they afford losing all that money? We're talking about five figures here._ There was a considerable amount of money involved in those card games, according to his annotations...

     "And these card companions of Mr. Adair's are already here?" the DI asked casually, but not losing his posture.

     Richard Adkins looked at Lestrade then at Donovan. It was rather obvious that the man didn't want to have the name of his club involved in a scandal like that.

     "We would just like to ask them a couple of questions to help with the investigation," Lestrade pushed. "I believe the sooner we finish this whole thing, the better... for _everyone_ , don't you think?"

     "I can give you a list of names," Adkins replied, finally giving in, after all, it was in his best interest to have his club's name out of that case. "But... I can't force anyone to talk to you."

     Lestrade's lips were suddenly showing a half smile. "You give us that list and we'll do the rest."

 

It was nearly a quarter after nine when Lestrade and Donovan walked out of the Baldwin club.

     They had spoken with two out of five people that usually played poker with Ronald Adair and they were all very cooperative. John Holloway and Gregory Laurie had provided alibis that Donovan had already contacted the Scotland Yard and they were checking them, and the other three, Scott Welsh and Carson Ferdinand were currently out of the country and there was also Leonard Porter. They would check their whereabouts also, but overall, they didn't get much.

     Apparently no one had problems with Adair and, if their speeches were anything to go by, much like the victim, they could afford their losses. Money was definitely not a problem there.

     "All right," said Lestrade with a heavy sigh. "Where to next?"

     "Well, we still have the Cavendish and the Bagatelle to check."

     Lestrade sighed once more. He had spent over an hour at the Baldwin, he was not looking forward to do the same. Twice.

     "Which one is the closest?" he asked tiredly.

     "The Cavendish is about twenty minutes from here," Donovan replied. Then, her features twisted into an expression of confusion. "But what about Hunter? I thought she'd be here with us."

     "Hunter was going to talk to Doctor Watson," Lestrade answered blankly as he checked his phone. He'd been expecting his fellow detective to call or something; surely she must have talked to Doctor Watson already...

     "Wait a minute," Donovan blurted out. "Doctor Watson? As in _the_ Doctor Watson?"

     Lestrade simply nodded as he browsed through his phone. He had a text from DI Sophie Hunter; it said she was heading towards Park Lane to check the crime scene once more.

     "Why does she want to talk to John Watson?" Donovan asked; she was suddenly really curious about that. What would a Scotland Yard Detective want with a doctor? "Is he a suspect now?" But then, another possibility dawned on her and she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. "Or is it because of— his late friend?"

     Lestrade finished typing a message and looked away from the phone to find Donovan's dark eyes fixed on him. She was giving him that look that he knew all too well for it was the same look she addressed him whenever he called Sherlock.

     "I have no idea why she wants to talk to him," the older detective said in a very monotone tone as he put his phone back in his jacket. Truth be told, he had an idea as to why Sophie wanted to speak with John Watson, but he didn't think it'd be wise to tell Donovan — or more so, confirm her theory. "Perhaps she wanted his professional opinion."

     "Professional opinion..."

     "Yeah. Perhaps. I don't know because, as you can see, I am not with her," Lestrade said elusively. Then, he hurried to change the subject because even though he wasn't eager to spend another hour or so in a fancy club, he was suddenly a lot more interested in not having a discussion with Donovan about things he did not know for sure and that could be about people that were not there anymore. "Look, we gotta go. This case will not solve itself and I want to wrap this part today if I can. If you don't want to come, fine. I can go by myself or I can find someone else to take your place."

     Surprisingly enough, Donovan dropped the inquiry and simply nodded. "All right," she said in clear surrender. "Let's get going..."

     With a short nod, Lestrade rushed to his sedan while Donovan did the same. Soon enough they were leaving the Baldwin club behind.

—

"Put these on," Sophie said as she pulled two pairs of latex gloves and handed one over to John as they climbed the stairs.

     The room, much like the entire house, was empty. Mrs. Adair and her daughter were staying with a relative. Not surprising in the slightest, Sophie thought as she walked through the door and stepped inside the crime scene once more.

     "Oh, Jesus..."

     Sophie stopped walking and turned around so she was facing John. The doctor was still standing by the door, eyes wide open and an expression of shock and horror plastered on his face.

     Even at broad day light, the appearance of the room was quite somber. The crime scene had been processed last night but the room was still tainted red.

     "Oh my god," John murmured under his breath as he took in the scene.

     He had been in crime scenes before, but never something quite like this. Sure he had seen the pictures while going through the case file, but being there was something else entirely. It was like he had read some horror story and he was now stepping into it... The feeling it gave him was not something he enjoyed, not in the slightest. It reminded him of his years in the Army —more specifically, the friends he had lost in the battlefield— and the loss of his best friend... John never thought he would feel that again. He was _hoping_ he would never feel that ever again.

     "We can do this some other time," Sophie suggested when she noticed the colour leaving John's face. "Or never again..."

     As soon as he heard Sophie's voice, John blinked and averted his eyes from the gruesome sight and found her standing in the middle of the room.

     Having something else to look at that wasn't remotely connected to death or anything like that was pretty good, and John felt the knot in his stomach become less of a problem when he looked at the detective. The view of Sophie standing there was a sight for sore eyes. She was so full of life.

     "No," John said after a few seconds in silence. "No, uh... I'm fine."

     Sophie's eyebrows furrowed. "Are you sure? Because it is all right if you—"

     "No. I'm okay," he said in a reassuring tone. John had agreed to be there and he wanted to help. "I'll be fine, just... just give me a minute."

     Sophie watched John very carefully. She knew the man was a doctor and had been an Army doctor so it was highly unlikely that he was grossed out by the blood... but she could understand the shock.

     Last night, when she stepped into the room, she had to stop for a moment and take a few deep breaths. It wasn't pretty. Being in that room, even now that the body was gone, wasn't pleasant at all. Quite the contrary. Someone had died there.

     "Take your time," Sophie said in a low tone. If John needed a minute or an hour, he could have it. She wasn't about to rush the man that had willingly agreed to help her. He didn't have to be there in the first place.

     Giving Sophie a short nod to show his appreciation, John took a few steps around the room in complete silence.

     "What happened?" he asked quietly.

     John had kept his eyes fixed on the ground, but he looked up and searched for Sophie's eyes when he spoke. He was standing near the spot where Ronald's body was found, between the desk and the bookcase.

     "That's what we're trying to figure out," Sophie said gently.

     "But, do you have any... theories?"

     He hesitated at the last word and, without even noticing, John averted his eyes for a brief moment. All of a sudden, the image of his best friend standing at that crime scene and going through the possible scenarios flashed before his eyes and it hurt. It hurt more than John had been expecting to.

     Sophie noticed the wave of angst that suddenly engulfed John, but she also noticed he was trying hard not to let it show so she decided to fake ignorance for a while.

     "There are two or three." _E_ _ach one more improbable than the other,_ she added mentally. There was honestly no reason for her to mention Anderson's theories. Especially when one of them would bring more unpleasantness to the situation.

     "You don't... agree with any of them?" John asked carefully. Even though that detective had showed up at his door and had asked for his assistance, he knew nothing about her.

     Sophie's eyes dark brown eyes met John's blue ones and, for a few couple of seconds, she didn't answer. Her silence made John question the possibility that he'd gone too far, but when the corner of her lips turned slightly upwards, he breathed out in relief.

     "Not quite," she admitted in a soft tone.

     "Why?"

     "Because they are improbable," _and some are just downright idiotic and with no bases at all, like suicide,_ she thought, but did not say.

     John shook his head. Improbable. There was something that Sherlock would have said. He would also tell him to think, and that’s what he did.

     "I read on the file that the probable cause of death was a gunshot wound?" he asked once he was able to focus on the reason why he was there.

     "It's a possibility," Sophie said as she walked up to where John was standing. "A mushroomed bullet covered in blood was extracted from that book," she indicated the damaged leather binding of a book that still sat on the bookcase.

     "A possibility... yes, the damage was too extensive," John said with a nod, although it sounded more like he was talking to himself.

     Silently, Sophie couldn't agree with him more. The experts were still working on the skull because judging by the way it was when they found the body last night, it was hard to point out what could've happened for sure. He could have suffered a blunt force trauma to the head and that could change the course of the investigation. With no concrete data, to state that the cause of death had been a head shot was guessing, and that was something Sophie thoroughly disliked to do.

     "We're waiting for a reconstruction of the victim's skull so we can determine what exactly happened..."

     John's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked around. He wasn't half as brilliant as his former flat mate had been and he was completely out of his element there.

     "Look, Detective Hunter," he said when he turned around to look at Sophie, who was statuesquely standing a somewhat near the desk, eyes fixed on him. Suddenly, John felt slightly self-conscious. "I would like to help you, really, but... I don't know how."

     John could almost feel the disappointment that should be seeping through every Sophie's every single pore; she had asked for his help and he was useless. Maybe she only reached out for him because of...

     "I know you're not a detective," she said, pulling John out of his train of thoughts. "I just want your most honest opinion on this case. And, if I may, you were doing well."

     "How was I _doing well_?" He asked dubiously. "I didn't do anything."

     "I beg to differ," she said; a half smile playing on her lips. "You saw the photo of the body, you read the file, and yet, you did not jump to conclusions about the cause of death. Even though you've been biased by other people's findings, you were able to remain uninfluenced by those, and that is pretty fantastic I'd say."

     John felt his cheeks getting slightly warmer. "Well, I wouldn't call it fantastic..."

     Offering John a warm smile, Sophie began to pace. "It is quite refreshing so please, do continue."

     John's eyes started to travel around the place. He _still_ had no idea what he was doing, but he decided to just go with it since that's basically what he did when... when Sherlock was around.

     "Uh— okay then..."

     John looked at a few random things when he finally saw the desk. There were a few blood stained bank-notes lying there along with a few coins, an open notebook and a pen. But something caught John's attention. The notebook was open, but there wasn't one single drop of blood —or brain matter— on it. He frowned.

     "Was anything, besides the body, removed? Or... changed?"

     Sophie stopped on her tracks and turned to face John. A pleased look was plastered on her face when she noticed he was looking at the open notebook. She smiled. The man wasn’t a detective, but he was good at making observations.

—

The tall, dark haired man stood on the sidewalk for a couple more minutes, eyes locked onto the house across the street, until he continued his way.

     With his hands tucked inside his pockets, he tried to make some sense out of what he had just witnessed.

     What exactly the former Army doctor slash consulting detective's assistant, John Hamish Watson was doing at a crime scene? What could he possibly be doing there? The amount of things that could bring him to that part of the town and to that particular address summed up to a grand total of zero. Sure he could come and go wherever he wanted to, but he had no reasons to be there. Let alone in the company of a woman who was easily ten years younger than him. Unless...

     No.

     John Watson was just a doctor. That's all he had been ever since the events of 12 of June, 2012. His other half was gone, he wouldn't be dragged into the crime solving world, not when he had lost his best friend to it. No, sir.

     Perhaps she was his girlfriend?

     As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. He hadn't seen the woman's face but he could tell, just by the way she moved she wasn't John Watson's type. Well, maybe she was exactly his type, but the two of them together was something that would defy logic.

     No. There should be another explanation. A _reasonable_ explanation.

     He stopped walking when and looked at both sides of the street. Bringing a gloved hand out of his pocket, he raised it in the air and hailed a taxi that was just driving by.

     After giving the cab driver an address, the coat clad figure turned his attention back to his thoughts. Something about that seemed off; he just needed to figure out what was that.

     John Watson... What did John Watson have to do with any of that? Was he acquaintances with Adair or anyone from his family? Did he know any of his relatives?

     He spent a few moments hammering those questions in his mind when it dawned on him. As he crossed the streets of London, his thoughts quieted when he realized he'd been asking all the wrong questions. A half smirk played on his face for about half a second as soon as he noticed his mistake. Such an amateur's mistake...

     The woman.

     She was the only part of the equation that hadn't been there before. The only variable.

     He needed to know who the woman was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.

  
**Chapter Four**   


"So, this couldn't be about... money, could it?"

     Sophie glanced over at John. They were just leaving the crime scene and heading back to her car.

     "Are you asking or suggesting?"

     John looked at the woman next to him and at the piece of paper he was holding in his hands. "I am... asking?"

     A soft giggle escaped Sophie's lips as she reached inside her coat pocket for the car keys.

     "All right then," she said while deactivating the car's alarm and unlocking its doors. Walking around the front, Sophie looked at both sides of the street before opening the door and occupying the driver's seat. John Watson soon followed and took his place next to her.

     "I mean, all these clubs," he continued, once again checking the paper.

     Soon after he asked Sophie if something had been removed from the room, she opened a wide smile and asked him why did he ask her that

_"Well," John said as he looked back at the notebook that lay open on the desk. "There are no blood stains on this page," he indicated the first page and indeed it was blank as it had always been. "But, judging by the mess... there should be some, uh— red dots all over it, right?"_

_Sophie's smile grew wider. "You pay attention. That's good. Yes," she admitted as she moved so she was standing in front of John, across the table. Looking around, Sophie reached for a pencil and started to ground the graphite against the paper. "Something was taken, but it was the Scotland Yard... At some point before his death, the victim was scribbling on this notebook, apparently taking notes of..."_

_"Winnings and losses," John finished her sentence when he was able to see what the victim had been writing on the paper. The graphite made it visible the numbers and names that had been marked on the other page by the pressure Ronald Adair had applied on the pen as he wrote._

_"Precisely," Sophie confirmed as she pulled the sheet and handed it to John._

_"It's a list," he thought out loud as he tried to read the names. He raised his eyes from the paper and found Sophie's brown eyes fixed on him. "And these are clubs," he added shortly._

_She simply nodded. "Indeed they are, and Ronald Adair was a member of all three of them. The Baldwin, the Cavendish and the Bagatelle."_

     "They're, like, exclusive for members of the high society or something... aren’t they?" John half said, half asked.

     Sophie nodded. "I'd say so, Doctor Wa—"

     "John," he interrupted. Looking at the woman by his side, he found Sophie's brown eyes fixed on him and he felt a bit self-conscious for a moment. "I'm sorry. It's just... you can just call me John."

     John could feel his cheeks getting warmer and he hoped to God that he wasn't blushing. The way he interrupted her and then how she looked at him made him feel pretty uneasy. Though the feeling didn't last long. After a couple of seconds, Sophie's expression eased and a small smile settled on her lips.

     "Very well," she said softly as she started the engine of her car. "John then. I'd say you are correct about the clubs."

     "Then money..."

     "Could still be a possibility."

     John, who had averted his eyes to the file he had open on his lap. His eyes met hers and he honestly didn't know what to think. "But..."

     "Just because the clubs are open for the 'wealthy' people, it doesn't mean they don't go through difficulties." The doctor kept his eyes fixed on the detective as she pulled the car out of the parking spot and got back to the streets. "Or that they can afford losing a lot of money... sometimes, something as simple as name could do wonders and open so many doors."

     John Watson simply nodded. Sophie's words reminded him of something that he'd witnessed a while back, at Baskerville. He could remember his exact words to Sherlock. _Mycroft's name_ literally _opens doors_. He would definitely not be surprised to see such thing happening again.

     Sophie was just driving down the road when a low beep made her look to her side. It was the third time John's phone had beeped ever since they got to 427 Park Lane.

     "I know I asked for your assistance, but I can drop you back at your place," she told John when he read the message but didn't reply. Again. "Or anywhere else you have to be."

     "What?" He replied absent mindedly. It was only when Sophie looked at him and her eyes shifted to the phone he was holding in his hand that he realised what she was talking about. "Oh, no," he added quickly, putting the phone back inside his pocket. "It's, uh– it's not important."

     Sophie's eyebrows knitted together. "Are you sure?" she asked; her tone showing hints of harmless suspicious, just mere curiosity. "I mean, it is not the first time you ignore your phone, and it is really okay if you have something else to do, or someplace else to be..."

     "I don't."

     It surprised Sophie how quickly John's reply had come — and how adamant he had been. Addressing the older man beside her, Sophie stopped talking altogether. She figured, even if it was something important, it was also something he didn't want to talk about, and since it was none of her business, she dropped it. However, John did not. As soon as he noticed how abrupt his answer had been, John cleared his throat and added in a softer tone, "sorry, it really is not..."

     "Important. Got that," Sophie said nonchalantly. Looking away from the streets, she offered the doctor a small smile to let him know she did get the message and wasn't going to push things further.

     A handful of seconds passed and they were currently sitting at a red light when another beeping disturbed the silence inside the vehicle, though this time, it was her phone. Picking up the device from the inside pocket of her coat, Sophie saw she had one unread message.

     "It's from Lestrade," she said solemnly. But she didn't have time to read it because the lights turned to green and she had to focus on the streets once more.

     Changing to first gear, Sophie handed her phone over to John. "Could you read this for me, please?" she asked as she overtook a taxi that was pulling over. Instantly, John reached for the phone so she could pay attention to the traffic. Even though it was Sunday, the amount of vehicles on the streets was considerable.

     "Uh- Lestrade said they just left Baldwin and are heading to the Cavendish next... He asked if you could check the Bagatelle since it's only a few minutes away from Park Lane."

     "Of course," she muttered to herself. She should've thought of that; in fact, the idea had occurred to her, but since she was with John and she had noticed how he'd been ignoring his phone, she dismissed it and decided not to mention that. Maybe she could do that later... Or she could just leave it to Lestrade. She knew how miserable he would be with the task but it kind of comes with the territory.

     "So, since you don't have anywhere else to be," she said glancing at the man next to her. "Would you mind...?"

     But Sophie never finished that sentence. Before she could ask him if he would mind going to the Bagatelle with her before heading to the morgue so he could have a proper look at the body, John said "not at all" in a rather enthusiastic manner, which brought a smirk to Sophie's face. He was really into the whole 'assisting' thing.

     "All right then," she said as she looked around and tried to decide what was the best route to get back to the place she had just left.

—

Less than five minutes later, Sophie and John were walking through the big front doors of the Bagatelle club.

     John's eyes widened as he stepped inside the building. If the imposing exterior had him gaping with its four levels and remarkable details of the Victorian architecture, the interior then was making his mandible hurt. Everything, from the architectural details to the classic decor, was just absolutely impeccable.

     It was only when he heard Sophie's voice somewhere slightly far from him that John snapped back to reality and stopped admiring the place. She had been talking to someone that seemed to be responsible for the reception, although he doubted that a place like that would have something as simple and mundane as a reception.

     "May I ask you to, please, follow me?" he heard the woman with whom Sophie had been talking to reply in a sweet low voice. She was a bit on the short side, auburn hair, bright green eyes and had a few freckles on her cheeks and nose. She was quite beautiful, and her wardrobe —tailored ivory suit that fit her perfectly with a green shirt beneath it and beige heels— only made her look even more exquisite.

     Suddenly, John felt slightly out of place. The woman whom he did not know the name and Detective Hunter were dressed in a way that they'd somehow fit there, while John was wearing a pair of jeans, a dark blue button down shirt with a black jacket on top of it and brown shoes. For the first time in a long while, he wondered if he should re-think his wardrobe...

     "John?"

     He was again deep in thoughts when Sophie's soft voice brought his attention back to reality. Both Sophie and the red-head woman were looking at him with evident curiosity.

     "Yes?" he asked when his eyes met Sophie's dark ones.

     "Is everything okay?"

     "Yes," he said with a nod. "Yes, everything is fine..."

     John could tell she wasn't exactly buying his words —nor the other woman for that matter— since she furrowed her brows lightly as she looked at him, but much to John's pleasure, Sophie did not ask any more questions about that, instead she said simply, "okay... in this case, shall we?"

     Exchanging a quick glance with the brunette, John nodded before following the two women as they walked further into the place.

     "Please, wait here," said the red-head as she gestured towards a room that seemed to be a reading room or a very small library if the bookcases on two of the four walls were anything to go by. "In the mean time, can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Water? Perhaps something to eat?"

     Both Sophie and John thanked the woman's offer and politely declined it. Sophie because she didn't intend to spend more time there than what was strictly necessary and John because he was still processing the huge changes that had happened to his routine in the last three hours or so. He didn't really believe he would go back to crime scenes, ever again, so things were still a little too... fresh and quite unexpected.

     But John didn't have too much time to get lost in his thoughts because less than five minutes after the redhead escorted them to that impressive room, someone walked through the doors.

     "Miss Hunter, to what do I owe such great honour?"

     Looking away from the books, John turned on his heels so he was looking at the man that had just entered the room they were in and, once again, he felt slightly self-conscious. He was easily six foot tall, John noticed, had hazel eyes, dark brown hair and neatly trimmed beard and moustache as well; he should be in his late thirties or maybe early forties the doctor figured, judging by the soft lines on the corner of his eyes and his athletic body. Wearing a tailored suit that seemed like it had been made for a movie star or someone like that, John had to admit the man had some rugged good looks. He also had to admit that he was quite surprised when the man walked over to Sophie and took her right hand in his and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles with no ceremony.

     John didn't miss that, for a brief moment, the Scotland Yard Detective Inspector shifted her eyes and glanced at her shoes; a vain attempt to hide how uncomfortable she was.

     "I must say, I was pleasantly surprised when Miss Chandler came to inform me that you were here," he added as he let go of her hand rather reluctantly. Probably because he had acknowledged John's presence there... or at least noticed they weren't the only two people in the room.

     "Yes, about that... I didn't come here for a casual visit, Charles," Sophie said, eyes fixed on the man standing before her.

     If things weren't clear before, they were now; those two obviously knew each other. Not really sure if he should do anything, or say anything, John decided to do nothing and just stood there, on the exact same place he'd been, a couple of steps to Sophie's right.

     "Of course not." The small smile that Charles had been wearing ever since he stepped into the room suddenly grew bigger. "Casual visit definitely does not sound like something you would do. You don't do casual, isn't it right?"

     John's eyebrows knitted together and he felt as if he was in the middle of something personal. He briefly wondered if there was a way for him to sneak out of that place, and when he dared to glance at Sophie, he could tell she felt just the same and, while she was smiling mildly, that was just a façade. And John understood that better than he would have liked to.

     Clearing her throat, the Detective Inspector took no time in changing the subject of that conversation.

     "This is Doctor John Watson," she said, gesturing towards the man that had been standing like a statue next to her. "John, this is Mr. Charles Smith. President of the Bagatelle club."

     John reached out to shake hands with Mr. Charles Smith —the president of the Bagatelle club— and, goddamn, that man had some ridiculously white and perfectly straight smile, not to mention he had quite the handshake.

     "Hello," Charles said as he smiled at John. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson. I have to admit that I used to read your blog, and it was very... interesting."

     "Oh." That was something John did not see coming. "Did, uh... Did you read my blog?"

     "Why, yes," the man replied rather cheerfully. "The cases were so intriguing and your writing is very compelling. Although it was quite the tragedy what happened to Mr. Holmes... I read it on the newspapers… So terrible."

     Without even noticing, John found himself furrowing his eyebrows. He couldn't tell how he felt about that; did he really mean he was sorry or was he just saying that? If there was something that John noticed was that, whenever people mentioned Sherlock or the newspapers, he had a tendency to get defensive, and because he didn't want to mess up with Sophie's case, all that John did was to nod. Luckily, the detective must have picked up that something wasn't right and she hurried to change the subject of that conversation to the actual topic they had gone there to discuss.

     "Uh, Charles, we are working on a rather tight schedule here so, would you mind answering a few questions?"

     John took a deep breath as Charlie turned his attention back to Sophie once again.

     "It's about Adair, isn't it?" He asked; his voice wasn't cheerful any longer. Even his features had changed into a grave expression. "I read about it... What happened?"

     "That's what we're trying to figure out. It became known to me that Ronald Adair was a member of the Bagatelle," Sophie said and John could literally see the change in her stance. He'd been expecting to see a woman like the one that knocked on his door and asked for his assistance, but this Sophie didn't resemble that one. And they were different in a way, for right now, Sophie wasn't there; John was seeing Detective Inspector Hunter. "What can you tell us about him?"

     "Honestly? Not much. I obviously knew who Ronald Adair was and we may have exchanged a few words on occasion, but we were just acquaintances..."

     Sophie nodded. "Do you know if he had any enemies, anyone who would want to harm him?"

     "Enemies? No. Not that I can think of, but, like I just told you..."

     "You were just acquaintances," Sophie echoed his words. "Yes. And what did he do here? When he came to the Bagatelle, what would he normally do?"

     "Cards mostly," he said. "He would come to brunch every now and again, played Polo a couple of times, but I'd say his major interest would be cards."

     Yet again, Sophie nodded. "And do you think I could talk to his card companions?"

     That was basically the reason why she had gone there, and she had high hopes that Charles wouldn't stand in her way. She knew him enough and Charles was a pretty reasonable man; he should know it was in his best interest to help her with the investigation. And indeed she was right.

     "Of course," he quickly acquiesced. "I mean, you'd have to ask his companions if they are willing to answer your questions but I will not stand in the way of a police investigation. Quite the contrary. If you need anything that's within my reach, I will gladly cooperate. I'll ask Miss Chandler to give you a list of everyone who played cards with the young Mr. Adair, either regularly or not. I'm not sure if any of them are here, but I assume it could be helpful."

     "Very much, thank you. Could you ask Miss Chandler for the list now?" Sophie asked. "Like I said, we're on a rather tight schedule..."

     That wasn't exactly true. Sophie did want to wrap that case sooner rather than later, and she really wanted that list to be in her hands so she could actually start working on the case but she wasn't working on a tight schedule. She had plenty of time to do everything right, she just didn't want to be there longer than necessary, and she had gotten all that she needed for now.

     "Yes, of course," Charles said promptly. "Come with me, please."

     Sophie nodded. "Sure," she said simply and, exchanging a glance with John, the two of them followed Charles out of the library and further into the club's building once more.

 

Much to John's delight —and Sophie's as well—, about thirty minutes after they walked into the large and dashing building that was the Bagatelle club, they were leaving.

     "Well, that was, uh... that was quite interesting," John said as they returned to Sophie's vehicle.

     "Interesting?" the DI asked as she looked at him with an arched eyebrow.

     "Kind of," he replied casually. "Wasn't it?"

     "Not really," she said as she unlocked the car and walked over to the driver's side. "Interesting would _not_ be the adjective I'd use. Helpful? Maybe. Inevitable? Probably. Unpleasant? Most definitely. But not quite interesting..."

     John found himself suppressing a smile as he sat on the passenger seat and glanced at the detective. She was just Sophie now, and she had a look in her face that he knew all too well; it was almost the same look that could be seen in his face whenever he was fed up.

     "So, you and Charles... old, uh— old friendship?"

     John knew he was probably being a tad nosy, but he couldn't help; not after everything he saw and heard.

     "It's not much of a friendship, I’d say," Sophie replied casually as she checked her phone and typed a message to Lestrade to let him know she had already gone to the Bagatelle. "We're more like, old acquaintances," she added when she put the phone aside and started the car. "We just happen to have a couple of friends in common..."

     John nodded. "I see," he said casually. He was good enough with people and the way Sophie had answered his rather intrusive question told him that she didn't want to keep talking about that so, respecting her wishes, he didn't pry any further. Though there was one more thing he needed to say.

    Clearing his throat, John turned his head so he was looking at the brunette's profile and softly said, "Thank you."

     Sophie was maneuvering the car so they could leave that property once and for all when she heard John's words. Averting her eyes from the outside, she glanced at the man next to her and found his eyes fixed on her; his blue eyes seemed to be painted with something that resembled appreciation. Deep appreciation. As if she had saved him from a death trap or something. Her eyebrows softly knitted together.

     "What for?" she asked curiously.

     "For what you did… you came to my aid when Charlie was talking... about Sherlock."

     Sophie's expression eased and it changed from curious to sympathetic. "I can tell you still have a hard time talking about Sherlock Holmes," she said gently. "I can see it in your eyes, right now, that his death still affects you."

     John suddenly went speechless and felt a sudden urge to look away; he could tell Sophie meant that, and he didn't really know how he felt about it. Was she wrong? Not at all. But he didn't want anyone to know how much Sherlock's death had affected him — and still affected him. Without noticing, John furrowed his eyebrows, but didn't avert his eyes.

     "And it's okay," Sophie continued. "I mean, do I know what you're going through? No, I do not. In fact, I can't possibly imagine what it was for you, how it _has been_ for you... But when I heard Charles mentioning the newspapers and Sherlock Holmes, I could see, just by the way you held yourself and looked at him, how uncomfortable you were."

     "The newspapers were wrong," John said abruptly, not being able to help himself. He had wanted to tell that to the pompous president of the Bagatelle club, but Sophie's presence there kept him from doing so. "Sherlock was not a fraud. He did not invent Moriarty. Jim Moriarty was real. He was... Sherlock was _not_ a fraud."

     Then, almost as abruptly as he started talking, John fell silently once more. He pressed his lips together so they were forming a thin line and, this time, he looked away from Sophie's piercing dark eyes.

     Sitting back on the passenger seat, John leaned his head back, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He knew she wasn't the exact person he had wanted to tell those things to, but it felt nice saying it out loud. He felt as if a lump that had been growing in his throat all this time, keeping him from talking about that was just gone. Even if that would last just a few moments, John felt like he could breathe better.

     Even after John went silence, Sophie didn't say a word. She simply watched the man as he leaned back, closed his eyes and just sat there. She had heard every single word he had to say and didn't even think about interrupting him; it was pretty obvious that he needed to get all of that out of his system at some point, so she let him. God only knew for how long he had been keeping that inside him. And she also let him enjoy the peace of mind that followed his sudden outburst.

     For a few minutes, the inside of the black Freelander 2 was in complete and utter silence. Sophie had turned her attention to the streets of London once more while John just sat there, staring out of the window.

     "I'm sorry," John said in a low tone.

     Blinking a couple of times, he looked away from the window and turned his head so he was facing Sophie. "About before," he added when his eyes met her dark ones. "I'm sorry if I was rude, I didn't mean—"

     "It's okay," Sophie interrupted him. "You needed to vent. I understand."

     "Well, yeah, but—"

     "It's fine, John," she said rather emphatically. "Really. Unless you didn't mean what you said, you don't owe me any apologies."

     John didn't reply to that instantly. He did mean everything he had said, he just didn't mean to throw it all on her and the way he did it. As far as he could tell, Sophie was the only person that didn't judge Sherlock. Well, Mrs. Hudson also didn't do that, or Molly and Lestrade, but they all knew Sherlock, and for a much longer time than John did. But Sophie... she didn't know him and yet, she gave him the benefit of the doubt. Too bad she would never get to meet him, see what John had seen and know what John knew. That his best friend was a great man. Maybe the greatest man that ever existed.

     "I believe you."

     Blinking a couple of times, John glanced back at the brunette. "What?" he asked dubiously. Did she mean what he believed she meant?

     They were current waiting for the traffic light turn green again when Sophie looked at John. His blue eyes were indecipherable; he was puzzled.

     "I believe you," she said again. "I believe when you say that Sherlock Holmes isn't a fraud and did not invent Moriarty."

     "You... do?"

     The way he was looking at her almost made Sophie giggle. She didn't though, instead, she just smiled at him and said a very casual "I do."

     To say John was surprised was an understatement. Shaking his head, he shifted on his seat so he was focusing solely on the woman behind the steering wheel, even though her focus was on the street again. "Why?"

     "I may have not known Sherlock Holmes, John, but I've seen and heard more than enough to believe the papers were not selling the truth."

     John was baffled. He didn't really know what to say. For over a year he had heard people saying all sorts of bad things about his friend and now... now there was that woman saying she believed him.

     No one in over one year told him that. No one had done anything that was remotely similar to everything that Detective Inspector Sophie Hunter did today.

     "Thank you," he said again, his voice not as steady as he wished it would be.

     But if Sophie found that to be a flaw, she didn't say nor let it show. Her eyes acquired a softness that made John feel as if he hadn't been fighting that lost battle against all the ignorant people alone. Somehow, knowing that there was someone, even if it was just one person, who didn't think he wasn't being hopelessly naive or incredibly stupid or anything along those lines was refreshing. It made him feel better than he had in such a long time.

     Keeping that gentle smile on her face, Sophie said a very honest "you're welcome".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is much appreciated -- I can't get better if I don't know what I'm doing wrong, can I?  
> Thank you for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.

** Chapter Five **

 

It was nearly eleven thirty when Lestrade and Donovan left the Cavendish.

     Nearly eleven thirty, which meant they had pretty much spent their entire Sunday morning talking to a handful of upscale people in order to come up with a list of eleven names that could or could not have anything against the victim, Mr. Ronald Adair, and be (or not to be) a potential suspect.

     He knew it wasn't very professional of him, but after spending nearly four hours to get those bloody names, Lestrade was wishing that someone from that list was the responsible for Adair's death.

     "I swear to God," he heard Donovan say as they crossed the long driveway that would take them back to where they had parked their vehicles. "If I had to spend ten more minutes in either of those places, I'd leave in a police car and I would not be the one driving..."

     "Tell me about it," Lestrade replied as he grabbed his car keys from the inside pockets of his jacket. Five more minutes and the Scotland Yard would be one Detective Inspector short.

     "So," Donovan said tiredly as they stood by their respective vehicles. "We still have one address to check..."

     "God, no," Lestrade interjected quickly making Donovan look at him with curious eyes. "I texted Hunter and told her to check it..."

     "And did she?"

     That was a rather good question. Until the moment he and Donovan entered the Cavendish club –which had happened about two hours ago–, he hadn't heard a word from his fellow Detective Inspector. But then again, Lestrade hadn't checked his phone very often.

     Pulling the slim device from his jacket, Greg learnt he had one unread message from Hunter. It said:

_Got a list of possible suspects from the Bagatelle. Heading back to the station._

     "How the hell did she do that?!"

     Donovan, who had been waiting for a word from her boss to know whether they'd have to endure another couple more hours at the Bagatelle or not, was taken by surprise with Lestrade's reaction. She was just about to ask how the hell she did what exactly when Lestrade looked away from his phone with wide eyes.

     "She already has a list of names from the Bagatelle club," he told her; his tone matched his expression in a very strange way.

     "All right," Donovan said carefully. "And the reason you're talking like this is a bad thing is because..."

     "I texted her approximately a quarter after nine, she texted _back_ at ten."

     Donovan's eyes widened and her eyebrows described an arch that nearly touched her hairline. "Okay... how the hell did she do that?!"

     Lestrade's answer could be resumed to a shrug. "Haven't the foggiest, but next time, we'll let her do it."

     "You won't catch me arguing... Back to the station then?"

     Unlocking the car, Lestrade muttered a simple "yeah" before he took his place behind the steering wheel and started the engine of his car. He had never been so eager to get back to the New Scotland Yard...

—

He stopped in front of a two-story house located in Conduit Street and, pulling a key from his coat pocket, he unlocked the door and stepped in.

     After spending the last few hours running some 'errands' and speaking to some old acquaintances, he finally returned home. Even though he still had no answers as to who was that brunette woman that was with Doctor John Watson at Park Lane, he knew it was a matter of time.

     Stripping of his grey scarf and the heavy black coat, the dark haired man placed them on the coat closet by the entrance door and sauntered over to his living room.

     "Time," the man mused to himself as he reached for the newspaper on his coffee table and walked over to the window. "Just a matter of _time_ …"

—

Sophie and John were huddled up in her office as they went over all the evidence they had collected thus far.

     "Who ruled out the suicide theory?" asked John as he grabbed some photos of the body and the crime scene and re-read all the information there was for the _n_ th time.

     "That would be me," Sophie announced flatly as she kept staring at the whiteboard she had borrowed from a conference room as soon as she got to the station and placed on the wall opposite from her desk.

     John, who had been occupying her seat behind said desk, looked over the file and studied the dark haired woman for a few seconds. Sophie was leaning against the light wooden furniture, with her back to John, eyes fixed on the board. She had ditched the navy pea coat as soon as they got there, rolled the sleeves of her dress shirt up to her elbows and was holding tightly onto a blue whiteboard marker whilst tapping with her fingers on the top of the desk. John found himself frowning; the way she stood there, Sophie reminded him of Sherlock when he was staring at his notes. In fact, the resemblance on their stance was something that disturbed John, but at the same time, comforted him. It was strange. Just like it had always been with Sherlock...

     Clearing his throat, John forced all those comparisons out of his mind. There would never be anyone quite like Sherlock.

     "Okay and... uh– why would that be?"

     For the first time in the last twenty minutes or so, Sophie looked away from the board and fixed her gaze on John. "Sorry," he said quickly. "I'm just... trying to, erm– you know... consider every possibility without jumping to conclusions."

     John's voice started to fade as he watched Sophie taking a few papers and photos that were scattered all over the desk; it seemed like she was looking for something and as he sat there, he felt as if he was being annoying —to put things lightly—, so he just shook his head and tried to go back to what he was doing before, even though he didn't know for sure what that was. "You know what? Never mind," he added quickly. "I'm sorry..."

     "Don't."

     All of a sudden, both John and Sophie stopped; he noticed she had stilled her movements and he did the same. He could also feel Sophie's eyes fixed upon him, however, it took him a great deal of will power to look back at her.

     "Don't apologise," she said simply when his blue eyes met her dark ones. "It is only by asking questions that we will eventually reach an answer, so I urge you not to hold back any questions you might have. None whatsoever."

     For a few seconds, he went speechless. John didn't know what he'd been expecting but that wasn't it. It surprised him how this Detective Inspector was putting up with him. John briefly thought how this occasion in particular, had forced him to take a trip down memory lane, back to those days when he would tag along with Sherlock whenever the consulting detective had a case he was kind of used to Sherlock and how he worked... He knew he was doing that again and he knew it wasn't right because Sherlock and Sophie were two different people, but there he was, drawing comparisons again, and it was then that he realised something. While he had and would always have an enormous respect for Sherlock and he truly found the man a complete genius, John couldn't help but think that it was slightly easier to work with Sophie. She didn't make him feel stupid.

     "Okay," John said after a couple of seconds. "So, not suicide because...?"

     It took Sophie a moment, but when she found what she was looking, the right corner of her mouth twitched lightly, and John could be wrong, but he believed he'd seen a half smile right there.

     "Here," she said, placing a photo of the dead body on top of the pile of papers that John had in front of him.

     He inhaled deeply when he saw it. Even now, after he'd seen that a few times and had even got to see the body at the morgue (not Bart’s morgue, which surprised John, but he didn’t make any comments regarding that) before they got to the Yard, it was a view that one couldn't get used to.

     "The damage inflicted by the impact of the bullet was too big."

     In all honesty, Sophie didn't have to say that; she was basically stating the obvious.

     "Right... About that... It says here that the bullet recovered from the bookcase was a regular 9mm?" John half said, half asked as he tried to find the paper where he'd read that information.

     "Haven't seen the ballistics report myself, but yes, it was a 9mm," Sophie agreed.

     Looking up, John couldn't help but ask "How?"

     Even thought John's question couldn't have been straighter to the point, Sophie's answer was anything but. A smile of its sort made its way to the woman's lips and she blurted out a rather enthused, "Exactly."

     Without even noticing, John's eyebrows furrowed.

     "Unless it was something like, say a triple barrel, if he had done this to himself, the blood and brain matter wouldn't have spread this wide out," she placed another photo on top of the one with the body. "And it wouldn't have caused this much damage... Same goes for accidental death."

     John wasn't exactly an expert with bullets and blood pattern and all that jazz, but he couldn't help but think that it made sense. Say the man had killed himself; most of the stains would be either behind him or to the side opposite to which he'd taken the shot. And a regular 9mm, fired at close range would definitely not have nearly destroyed Adair's left temporal lobe.

     "Sounds reasonable," he acquiesced leaning back on Sophie's chair. "So we _are_ looking at murder."

     "That's how I see it," she said with a short nod and resumed her previous staring stance.

     John didn't say a word for about five seconds; then, he couldn't help himself. "But...?"

     "But something's wrong," Sophie replied as she kept staring at the board.

     In all honesty, John didn't know why she was staring at the nearly blank board. As far as he could tell, it should be better if she added the photos and all the information she had on it —that's how Sherlock did (and a handful of detectives from movies and series, if that was anything to go by) — but instead, she was looking at a single line she had drawn; a time line where it read only the time Ronald got back home and the time the body was found. Not anything else.

     "Okay, uh... Forgive me but, there's nothing there," John said finally.

     He had tried to do as Sophie did and he looked at that board for about a minute or so in hopes that it would give him a hint as to what she was thinking or what could possibly be wrong, but all he could see was a white board with a line and a couple of numbers. Basically, John couldn't see anything. Except…

     "Hang on... there is _nothing_ there."

     Sophie turned her head around so she was looking at John again. He was going though the notes again but, this time, there was this unyielding determination in his movements and overall body language that made the brunette knit her eyebrows together.

     "John?" She called his name, but he didn't answer. In fact, he didn't seem to have noticed she had talked to him at all. He was so caught up with whatever he was doing that he didn't pay much attention. It was only when he grabbed one particular piece of note and thoroughly examined it that Sophie noticed what was going on: John was looking for something, something he had _missed_.

     "There is nothing," he announced blankly as he stood up straight and walked over to the board. "Not a bloody thing. There is no witness, no evidence of anyone else being in the house, no one heard anything, up until now, no motive..."

     Sophie simply nodded in confirmation.

     "But there's a body in the morgue," John said, turning to face Sophie. "And a murder that happened in Park Lane... it doesn't make sense!" Then, he stood there, facing the improbable, something clicked. "Hold on..."

     John mentally kicked himself. It hadn't occurred to him, until right now, that he had seen something slightly similar to that before.

     "Maybe the killer used the window as a way in and out," he suggested hopeful. "This... this report says that the maid had left one window open," John added while searching said report, but didn't go very far. Sophie shook her head almost instantly.

     "I know where you're trying to get," she said softly. "And I won't lie, I thought about that possibility myself. A man shows up dead with no traces of a killer? Promising, but no. I'm afraid this isn't a rerun of the Blind Banker, John. I've checked it."

     John's mouth was slightly open and he was pretty sure he was staring but he couldn't help. Was it possible that Sherlock's spirit was living inside that woman? Because wow...

     "The Blind Banker," he muttered when his ability to speak returned. "Did you...?"

     "... read your blog?" she asked when he failed to finish the sentence. "Yes, I did. Does that surprise you?"

     "A little, yes," John admitted. But then, as he started to think about the question, he decided that it wasn't exactly a surprise. She did know about him and Sherlock and about what they did. Sure she could've read it on the newspaper, but the idea of her checking his blog didn't sound all that strange...

     John was just about to ask her how did she rule out the possibility of a killer who knew how to climb when the door of her office went open and he saw two very familiar faces walking through it.

     Sophie also acknowledged the presence of her two co-workers, but before she could say a word to them, Lestrade's voice filled the room.

     "How did you do that?"

     "How did I do what?" she asked confused. Frankly, Sophie had no idea what the older Detective Inspector was talking about.

     "How did you _not_ spend two hours at the club?"

     But, before Sophie could answer Lestrade's question, Donovan registered John's presence.

     "What are you doing here?" she asked, eyebrows furrowed and eyes fixed on the doctor. "And what's with the moustache?"

     "I, uh—" John looked at Donovan and Lestrade who, seemed equally surprised to see him there, then at Sophie. He didn't know how to respond to that question.

     "I asked him to come," Sophie said simply, answering Donovan's question. "And the president of the club happened to be an acquaintance. What about you? Did you have any luck at the Baldwin and the Cavendish?"

     At the mention of those two names, Lestrade let out a heavy sigh and handed over the two lists of names he had collected from both places.

     "We talked to some of them who happened to be at the clubs when we were there," Lestrade said as he watched Sophie go through the names on both lists. "But nothing came out of it."

     She nodded. "Did you run background on them all?"

     "Not yet. I just got back from the Cavendish after spending two hours at the place… Two hours."

     Looking away from the list of names, Sophie found Lestrade's eyes fixed on her. If the way he was behaving and his tone were anything to go by, Sophie would say Greg Lestrade was upset for the way his morning went, especially those two hours that he spent at the Cavendish... And, for a moment, when she considered the way he was looking at her —so intently, in a way that he seemed to be expecting some explanation or something—, Sophie believed that, somehow, he was also a bit pissed at her, although she couldn't fathom why.

     "You know what, why don't you go get yourself a coffee while I check all of these?" She kindly suggested, talking about the names as she tried to lighten the mood in the room and of the people that were currently in the room. "No, no, no... Caffeine is probably _not_ a good idea. Have some tea, or some orange juice, perhaps. It contains vitamin C which is good for your health. I'll let you know when I have the results."

     Lestrade opened his mouth, but soon closed it without saying a word. He was going to say he could do that, but on a second thought, he decided Sophie could handle it. Besides, he really needed a coffee, tea or orange juice... Hell, he'd probably have one of each, soon after he had lunch.

     "All right. Let me know when you get the results," he echoed Sophie's words before he walked out of her office. Donovan hot on his heels.

     "Yes, sir," Sophie muttered as she closed the door after them. Then, she turned his attention back to John.

     Just before they left, Lestrade had glanced at his watch; somehow, it had caused Sophie to do the same and she was truly surprised when she saw what time was.

     "Bloody hell, look at the time," she exclaimed. "It is past midday and we've been going through this all morning..."

     "Is it?" John checked his own watch and his eyes widened. "Yes, it is. Wow, I didn't even notice..."

     Sophie glanced at the older man and he did look quite surprised, so surprised it made her feel bad. It wasn't the first time she lost track of time while working a case, but it was the first time she had dragged a civilian into the case and had forgot about life for a moment.

     "I'm really sorry, John. I've been a bit– negligent..."

     "No," he quickly interrupted her. When John looked at Sophie and found her wide eyes and arched eyebrows staring back at him, he realised he may have been more abrupt than he actually intended, and it made him feel embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude... I'm fine."

     "Are you sure?"

     John nodded. "Yes," he said reassuring. "I'm okay."

     Sophie couldn't help but offer him a small smile. She did believe him, but she felt as if he wasn't saying everything. Still, she decided to let it slide – at least for now. "Okay," she said softly. "But if you want to go grab something to eat or drink, if need anything..."

     John nodded as he smiled in return. "Thank you."

     He was being honest. It's been a while since John felt this good, so truly and entirely fine. Sure he'd felt a bit odd a couple of times –like when he first saw the case file and the crime scene and, eventually, the body–, but he didn't feel like he'd been walking around with a heavy dark cloud hanging above his head, ready to rain down on him... Strangely enough, the moment he walked out of his flat with Detective Inspector Sophie Hunter, John felt, dare he say, utterly at ease, and probably feeling more alive than he had in the last few months.

     "Could you please do me a favour and tell me the names on these lists?"

     John looked away from the papers he'd been reading and changed his attention back to the woman that had taken a seat opposite to him. She had taken the keyboard and turned the flat screen of the computer to her, and it was then that John realised he was occupying her seat.

     "No, you can stay there," she said when he was about to leave her place. A quick question danced in his mind for about two seconds or so before he dismissed it; how did she know what he was thinking? She was a detective; maybe she had... detected something. "Just, read the names for me, please? One by one."

     "Uh, okay," he said as he sat back and took the lists from her hands. There were three of them and the first one, according to the emblem on the top of the sheet, was from the Cavendish club. "First name is... Victor Burke. B-U-R-K-E."

   "Victor... Burke. The man has no records," she announced when the search ended and no results showed up on her screen. In all honesty, part of Sophie was a bit disappointed to learn that he had no stains on his sleeves, but part of her was a bit glad. It was one name less on the possible suspects list that, as of right now, had too many names.

     Turning her attention back to John, Sophie hurried to bring her focus back where it should be in order to keep being objective. Whether she was disappointed or not, glad or not, was simply beside the point. She needed to run the names and then see where it would lead her. "Okay, next?"

     "Next, uh— Francis Caldwell. C-A-L-D-W-E-L-L."

     Sophie's fingers worked fast on the keyboard as she entered the second name of Lestrade's list, and they tapped on her desk as she waited for the result of the search.

—

Over sixteen miles away from the New Scotland Yard building, a Boeing 767 was ready to land at the Heathrow Airport and a man was ready to return to his home land.

_Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Heathrow Airport. Local time is twelve twenty three p.m. and the temperature is eleven degrees Celsius._

_For your safety and comfort, we ask that you please remain seated with your seat belt fastened until the Captain turns off the_ fasten seat belt _sign. This will indicate that we have parked at the gate and it is safe for you to move about. Please check around your seat for any personal belongings you may have brought onboard with you and please use caution when opening the overhead bins, as heavy articles may have shifted around during flight._

_If you require deplaning assistance, please remain in your seat until all other passengers have deplaned. One of our crew members will then be pleased to assist you. We remind you to please wait until inside the terminal to use any electronic devices._

_On behalf of British Airways and the entire crew, we would like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we are looking forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Have a nice stay._

     The man who was occupying seat 31A inhaled deeply. A nice stay. He was surely glad to be back, but using the adjective 'nice' for anything that was slightly related to his return was probably setting his expectations way too high for the near future. Sky-high, in a very delusional way one would say.

     Doing as the air stewardess had said, he fastened his seat belt and leaned back in his seat. He brought his hands up so the tips of his pressed together fingers brushed softly against his lips as he waited. Though he did not wait until the fasten seat belts signs were off to leave his seat. The airplane was still moving in a fairly slow pace when he stood up.

     Since no one came to bother him, the blond man put on the dark coloured Chesterfield coat that been lying on his lap until moments ago, adjusted the grey scarf around his neck and took no time in fetching for his suitcase from the overhead bin right above his seat.

     About a minute later, he was walking out of the airplane. Taking a pair of sunglasses from the front pocket of his luggage, he put them on right before he walked through the doors of the landing terminal of Heathrow Airport.

     Since he had no luggage to collect, the tall, lean man simply walked through the place and headed straight out of the airport so he could get a taxi.

     No one knew he was coming because, basically, no one expected him to come back... After all, he was pretty much dead to everyone in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Six

 

After finishing her search on the names from the clubs that Ronald Adair used to frequent, Sophie pushed the keyboard away from her reach, leaned back on her chair and let out a frustrated sigh.

     "That's it?" John asked; his eyebrows knitted together in a frown. "It can't be it... Can it?"

     "For now, yes," she admitted tiredly. Rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hands, she pushed her chair away from the desk and stood up. Turning her back to John, Sophie directed her attention back to the board.

     John soon followed her and he quickly walked around the desk and stood by her side.

     "What? No... There must be something," he said as he watched the brunette detective finally start to fill the board with all the information they had.

     Ignoring his phone that suddenly started ringing, John fixed his eyes on Sophie's profile, but she was completely absorbed in her task and didn't seem to be listening to John at all.

     "C'mon," he insisted as he automatically pressed the red button of his phone without sparing one glance to it. "Sherlock used to—"

     At the mention of the name Sherlock, Sophie turned to look at John, who, at the exact same moment, noticed what he had just said. John's sentence died in his throat before he could finish it and, for a few couple of seconds, complete and utter silence took over the place.

     Sophie placed all the photos back on the table along with the blue pen she was using to write down the notes on the board. She forgot about what she was doing and paid attention solely to the older man standing next to her.

     Blinking a couple of times, John inhaled deeply and averted his gaze for a moment. He didn't know how to do that. He had read the papers and had tried, more than once, to apply Sherlock's methods of deduction whenever he found some intriguing case but often failed. He didn't have Sherlock's mind and he wasn't a detective — not really. And still, there he was: in Sophie’s office at the Scotland Yard, along with said DI, trying to shed some light upon a very curious case. It was just like his old days...

     John felt as if he had gone back in time and he was living the life he had years ago. Only the detective he was assisting now was a lot more sociable (and looked a lot better, in his opinion). And maybe that was what had caused him to choke on his words. Because whenever he thought about crimes and whatnot, he was would think about his friend and, while it still hurt, it was almost bearable. However, this that he was doing... John couldn't help but wonder: what would Sherlock do if he was there? How would he crack that case and find out what happened and who killed Ronald Adair?

     It wasn’t exactly easy, but it was less difficult to think of his best friend when he was in his place, sitting comfortably in his armchair, reading some novel he'd picked from the library... But doing so at the New Scotland Yard while working alongside a detective and trying to help on a case which DI Greg Lestrade was also involved? That was something else.

     During those few silent moments where John just stood there, gazing at the window-pane behind Sophie's desk with Sophie herself watching him in complete and utter silent (perhaps considering whether he was having a stroke or had suddenly lost his ability to speak), his phone rang again. And one more time, he fished the device from his pocket and sent the call straight to voicemail, not even bothering to check who was calling him.

     Sophie didn't want to push John. She really didn't want to put any more pressure on the man because, quite frankly, she thought he was doing more than he was used to and more than he had to already... and when she saw him ignoring his phone for the second time, it all became too obvious.

     "Why don't we have a break?" she suggested softly, trying to get John's attention back. "There's this Brasserie a couple of blocks from here which is divine..."

     John watched when Sophie reached out for her pea coat and checked if her wallet was in one of its pockets. He had just opened his mouth to protest, but he gave up when she turned her gaze to him. Her eyes were warm, but there was something stern about it. How did she do that was just beyond John's understanding.

     "Come on," she said as she put on her coat, adjusted the collar and her hair. "My treat," she added while opening the door and jesting with her head for him to go ahead and do as she was saying.

     Part of John wanted to tell her that he was fine and they should stay and search for anything that could lead them towards the solution of the case, but the other part, the one that agreed with Sophie that he needed a break from all that for just a moment, that was the part that won.

     "Okay," John said in a low tone as he walked through the door and left Sophie's office.

 

The French restaurant that Sophie had mentioned wasn't just a couple of blocks away from the New Scotland Yard as she had said — it was about a dozen blocks and a few turns away.

     "You know," John said when Sophie parked her Freelander 2 a few metres from said French restaurant. "We could've stopped by that coffee shop we passed by, about three miles back."

     Walking right next to him, Sophie's reply to that was resumed by a half smirk as they approached the entrance.

     As soon as Sophie pushed the door open, John noticed that a man that had been talking to someone by the bar had noticed their presence there. Muttering something to the young woman he was talking to, he started to walk towards them.

     "Good afternoon, _Mademoiselle_ Sophie," the man said as he stood in front of them.

     He was in his early fifties most likely, very softly tanned skin, dark hair with touches of silver, grey eyes and, judging by his accent (and choice of words), he was definitely French.

     "Good afternoon, _Monsieur_ Louis," Sophie replied with a smile on her lips. "How have you been?" she asked casually as she stepped inside the restaurant behind John.

     "Good," the French man replied politely and cheerfully. "Very good, how about the _Mademoiselle_?"

     "I'm good as well, thanks for asking," she said just as kindly. Then, Sophie turned to face John, who hadn't said a word until now. With a small smile, Sophie placed her hand on John's arm. "Louis, this is Doctor John Watson," she said, introducing them. "John, this is Louis Bernard, one of the best French Chefs that London has ever seen and a friend."

     Looking at the man that Sophie introduced as Louis Bernard, John reached out a hand. "It's nice to meet you."

     Louis nodded as he shook hands with him. "Please. It is my pleasure, Doctor Watson."

     John found himself mechanically smiling at the man, though deep down, he was just hoping he wouldn't ask him if he was the John Watson, friend of the late Sherlock Holmes. With everything that was happening, John didn't know how he'd react to that. Luckily enough, the man didn't go there.

     "So," Louis said, looking at both of them. "Party for two or is _Mademoiselle_ Mary going to join you?"

     "Oh, no... Mary is working," Sophie explained, but while Louis nodded in understanding, John frowned with curiosity. _Who was_ Mademoiselle _Mary?_

     But the former Army Doctor didn't have the chance to actually ask that out loud, for the next thing, Chef Louis was escorting them through the diner saloon after saying a brief "follow me, please".

     "I'll have someone bring you the menu," Chef Louis said as he indicated them a table for two that sat near a big window. "Would you like to see the wine list as well?"

     "Thank you," Sophie said as she walked around the table and chose the seat that gave her a better view of the entire place. Old habits die hard. "I'm working so I'll pass, but John?"

     John Watson had been studying everything there was in the place —from the shiny linoleum floor to the two chandeliers that not only casted a golden glow to the place, but also added richness to the ambient— and he was a bit surprised when Sophie called him; it took him a second to process what was going on. "Oh... Uh, no. Thank you."

     Chef Louis simply nodded at the two of them before excusing himself.

     She didn't really mean to, but after Chef Louis left, her eyes ended up on the man sitting across from her and she watched, with light amusement, how John was carefully assessing everything about the place.

     He seemed to be studying carefully all the details of the restaurant and she had to try not to laugh when he place his hands flat on the table and smoothed out some nonexistent creases on the white tablecloth.

     "How did you say you found this place, again?" John asked as he brought his eyes up so he was facing the woman in front of him.

     Sophie didn't try to suppress a smile. "It was a friend of mine who showed me," she said, leaning back on her chair.

     "You mean, _Mademoiselle_ Mary?" he asked casually, causing Sophie to arch her eyebrows slightly. "You mentioned her a moment ago," he explained.

     Sophie found herself smiling. "Yes," she admitted. "It was Mary who showed me this place."

     John nodded as he looked around. "It's, uh— it is a very nice place," he said absent-mindedly. And he wasn't lying. The 'La Boheme' was an amazing place, the kind of restaurant that you'd take your date to, that is if you had a date. "Very nice, indeed."

     Sophie's surprise suddenly morphed into an expression of curiosity mixed with hints of amusement. Doing what she did for a living, she could read people pretty decently, and it wasn’t different with John. Based on what she'd seen, Sophie was just about to make a comment when a waiter —a young man in his late twenties, blond hair, green eyes who was dressed in a white dress shirt, black vest and tailored trousers— returned with the menus, so she had to postpone that.

     She gracefully took the card from the man's hand with a polite "thank you". Because she was familiar with the place, it didn't take her thirty seconds to decide what she was going to order, but she waited until John had decided what he would have.

     "I, uh... I'll have the Beef Bourguignon side mixed salad," he said after a moment of thinking.

     The young man nodded as he noted the order. "And for the lady?"

     "I'll have the _Mesclun_ ," she said softly.

     Without even noticing, John frowned. But he didn't say anything; he decided to wait until the waiter was gone, which, by the way...

     "Drinks?" The young blond asked, looking at the two of them.

     "Just water, please," Sophie said, and John nodded. "Yeah. Same for me, thank you."

     "Still or sparkling?"

     "Still," John told him, while Sophie's order was the exact opposite. "Sparkling."

     With a simple "All right" and an "excuse me", the tailored dressed waited turned his back to them and walked over to the bar, only to return a minute later with two bottles of _Ô Muse_ and two wine glasses. At first, John thought the man had brought the wrong drink —he didn't ask for wine—, but when he read the label of the fancy glass container, he realised it was water. Both of them thanked the man after he poured the transparent liquid.

     "So," Sophie said after she took a sip from her sparkling water. "Just for the record, Mary and I aren’t a couple."

     Much like Sophie, John brought his wine glass (though it held water) to his lips and he was drinking from it when he heard what she had said; he choked and nearly spilled water all over the table.

     Sophie could see the embarrassment in John’s eyes and everything attached and she had to muster a lot of strength not to laugh at the poor man. He was trying to be discreet, but he was nearly coughing his lungs out. Looking around, Sophie noticed a few pair of eyes facing them and a pang of guilt hit her when she noticed his face was suddenly turning red – probably because he was having a hard time breathing while dealing with that cough access.

     Pursing her lips together so she wouldn’t even smile, Sophie handed a serviette to the man across from her. “Here,” she said kindly.

     Glancing at the brunette in front of him, John accepted her offer and muttered a strangled and husky “thanks”.

     “You’re welcome… Sorry about that,” she said in a very apologetic tone. “I didn’t mean to…”

     Taking a few deep breaths, John recovered himself and just waved a hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, wiping away a few tears that had fell from the corner of his eyes. Then, despite his wariness, he reached out for the water and took a long sip from it. “It’s, uh– it’s fine... I'm fine.”

     Feeling less guilty now that John was breathing properly, Sophie sat back and waited until John had placed his glass in front of him and a few more seconds before she spoke again.

     “No, it’s not… I mean, things aren't really fine,” she added, taking a sip from her own drink. “Not to you, at least, am I wrong?”

     John’s eyes widened in a curious and mildly surprised fashion that Sophie was kind of expecting already.

     "You had that look on your face," she said, resting her elbows on the table, linking her fingers together and leaning slightly forward. "When you asked if it was Mary who had showed me this place and I said yes you had this look. And it’s all right, I understand. But we are not together, Mary and I... At least not like that."

     "All right," John said after a few seconds. He was now acutely aware of his facial expressions that he furrowed his brows rather carefully. "I see. I am— sorry? I, uh… I don't really know what to say," he admitted.

     A big open smile appeared on Sophie's face when she noticed John's measured demeanors.

     "Oh, please," she said casually, trying to ease the mood and dissipate that strange tension that seemed to have embraced John Watson. "You don't have to apologise. It was a very reasonable inference, if I may. Very good for someone who is not a detective," she offered him a smile. "And, by all means, I encourage you to say whatever it is that you want to. I like it when you do that."

     "You do?" John asked incredulous. The familiarity of that situation was borderline uncanny.

     "Oh yes," Sophie said with a short nod as she sipped from her sparkling water once more. "I like it how you don't mind sharing an opinion, whatever it is..."

     "You mean however stupid my opinion might be," John retorted before he could think through what he was saying.

     He'd been through that a thousand times, with Sherlock... There was a time when John believed that the tall, dark detective did that just for the kicks — because he was a show-off. However, with time, John realised it wasn't it; well, not entirely at least. That was Sherlock, and rude or not, socially inept or not, it was how he worked and, in the end, it made him a very unique creature.

     Bowing his head, John found himself inhaling deeply a couple of times. If things were different, he wouldn't be there with Sophie. If things had been only slightly different, maybe he'd be at some not so fancy restaurant with an absent-minded Sherlock Holmes — his best friend. Not that he disliked Sophie's company, it was just...

     A few moments passed and it was only when he heard Sophie's voice thanking someone that he noticed he'd been awful distant and silent.

     When John looked up, he found Sophie addressing someone a small smile and it was then that he acknowledged the presence of Chef Louis by their table.

     " _Monsieur_ ," the man spoke with his grave voice, heavy with his French accent as he placed his dish right in front of him.

     "Thank you," John said; his voice sounded slightly heavy in his ears. "Thanks a lot."

     But, if Chef Louis noticed it, he didn't let it show. Instead, he offered them both a smile. "I hope you enjoy," the Chef said before excusing himself from their presence.

     John's followed the man as he walked towards the kitchen. If he was to be honest, John wouldn't say Louis looked like a Chef. His first impression of the man was that he was the manager of the place or the owner given the fact that, when he first met the man, he was dressed in an impeccably white dress shirt, black trousers and matching vest and his shoes were so shiny that John believed, if he leaned down just a little bit, he'd be able to see his own reflex like he was gazing a mirror. Now he had thrown a white coat over all of that, but still.

     Blinking a couple of times, John realised he was staring at nowhere now. Chef Louis had vanished into his work place and he was just sitting there. Biting on the inside of his lower lip, John forced himself to stop avoiding the problem. He had made a fool of himself and he needed to deal with it.

     Clearing his throat, John shifted on his seat and fixed his eyes on his food. It looked and smelled fantastic, however, guilt was consuming John and, despite being hungry, everything John did for a handful of seconds was to poke around, until he couldn't do it anymore.

     "I'm sorry," John said as he placed his fork down and looked up so he was facing the young brunette in front of him. "About my comment," he added when she looked at him; her eyes bearing an unreadable expression.

     Sophie had placed her fork down and brought the serviette to her lips before letting it rest against her thigh once more.

     "It was an unfortunate thing to say," John continued, feeling more of an idiot than he'd ever been. "Not to mention incredibly rude and—"

     "John," she interrupted. The stern tone of her voice made the doctor stop talking altogether. "I'm sorry."

     John's eyes widened in surprise. "What?"

     "When I knocked on your door this morning and asked for you to come along, I knew it could be troublesome." Sophie made a small pause and carefully studied John's demeanors. He seemed to be stunned, so she decided to just keep going. "I understand that you and– Mr. Holmes were very close and asking you to do what you did with him had quite the potential to make things get more complicated than they could be if I hadn't showed up at your flat."

     It took him a few seconds to process what Sophie was saying, but when he did, John shook his head. "You said I didn't have to accept it," he told her. "And today, at your office, you said I could go... You're not... I don't–"

     "I know you don't," she said softly. "But I also know that you're having quite the inner conflict over it."

     John didn't respond to that immediately. Instead, he rolled over Sophie's words in his head for a few moments. Yes, he was conflicted inwardly, but not because of what she'd done. He had said yes to her when she asked for his assistance; he could have said no. It was just– he didn't know that accepting to help her would bring back so many buried emotions and feelings... Things he was used to not dealing with so openly.

     Not really knowing what to say, John fixed his eyes on his glass and fell silent again. But Sophie noticed what he was doing.

     "Speak your mind." John stopped avoiding Sophie's eyes and forced himself to face her. She didn't look like the detective he'd seen when they were at the Bagatelle, but there was something different from the Sophie that went to his place. Something in her eyes and her stance was different. "Whatever it is that you're thinking, say it."

     A few seconds elapsed before John let his head fall and let out a low sigh.

     "I am thinking," he began staring at his untouched food. "I'm being unfair to you..."

     Sophie shifted. "John..."

     "No," he protested. Raising his eyes to meet hers, John inhaled deeply, gathering some courage to just say it. "No. You told me to say it, just... let me finish."

     It surprised Sophie what she saw in John's blue eyes. They were glistening with something she could only name as some new resolution. He looked very sure of himself and of what he was going to do, which was a good thing in Sophie's opinion. It should make things between them change from the careful awkward dance they've been doing around each other, which, by the way, was getting old really fast, to something more synchronised.

     "Okay," she said with a short nod.

     Taking a deep breath, John nodded in return. "I've been unfair to you since the beginning."

     He studied the woman's reaction, but Sophie didn't seem to move a single muscle. She just sat there, watching and listening.

     "Okay... This morning, when you showed up at my flat and asked me if I could– assist you with your case, I said yes. But I may have done it for the wrong reasons." He made another small pause, but Sophie's demeanors had not changed. John inhaled deeply. "When you told me about the case and asked for my help, I couldn't help but think about... my past, and honestly, I may have been trying to find something that I have– lost."

     A strange silence settled upon them and, when John stopped talking, he also found himself unable to face Sophie. She had reached out a hand and John had taken it, but they've been hoping for different things. Sitting there, John felt a mix of shame and deception engulf him.

     He was about to apologise to Sophie and tell her he was out now when she spoke again.

     "John," she called him; her voice was so strangely calm that he raised his head so fast his neck hurt a little. "I will ask you a question and I want you to be very honest when you answer it."

     "All right."

     Sophie leaned forward a little and locked eyes with John. He noticed she was dead serious and it kind of scared him a little.

     "What is your favourite book?"

     John's eyebrows described a perfect arch above his wide open eyes. "What?" he asked incredulous. What was his favourite book? Where exactly did that come from?!

     "Or the one you're reading at the moment," Sophie added. "Whichever is fine."

     John frowned. "What does that have anything to do...?"

     "Everything and nothing. Take in consideration the fact that I am a detective," she said as she took her fork once again. "Have you not considered the possibility that the idea of you accepting my offer because of your _past_ may have crossed my mind?"

     John opened his mouth as if to say something, but quickly closed it when no words came to his mind. Had he not considered that possibility? No. Not really.

     "You can't avoid what happened to you and you can't erase it from your mind or your life. It occurred to me that maybe you'd accept my offer because of what you've been through, so it wasn't exactly breaking news," Sophie said simply as she speared a slice of cucumber with her fork and brought it to her mouth.

     John did as Sophie said and picked his fork back. He poked around his Beef Bourguignon, but ended up eating some leaves of his salad.

     "So," he said after he chewed and swallowed. "What does it mean?"

     That was the question that had been bugging John ever since Sophie said she was sorry. Was she sorry for having inviting him into the case or...?

     But whatever hopes of having an answer for that doubt were brushed away when she set her fork aside and grabbed her glass of water.

     "You tell me," she said casually once she placed the crystal glass on the table. "What does it mean? How is it going to be from now on? Because, personally, I would like you to continue assisting me."

     "You would?" John was genuinely surprised. He wasn't expecting to hear that; not really.

     "Yes, definitely. You bring a new perspective which I find quite refreshing and very helpful," she told him honestly. Then, even though she still spoke truthfully, Sophie's tone dropped a bit. "But what I need you to understand, John, is that I cannot fit into Holmes's shoes... I'm not him."

     Unintentionally, John averted his eyes. It was a somewhat automatic reaction of his, and one that didn't go unnoticed to Sophie.

     "Look," she said, trying to get John's attention back, which she succeeded. "I know it's hard for you to talk about him, I understand..."

     "Do you, now?"

     John shut his eyes closed and cursed himself. Why was he so still being so defensive? And with someone that had been all but rude? He shook his head; forcing himself to face Sophie again, John was about to apologise for his manners when he noticed the corners of Sophie's lips turning slightly upwards. Was she smiling? Why was she smiling?

     "I'm not taking this personally, John," she said; her tone so soft and kind that only added to John's puzzled state of mind.

     "Why?" he asked, genuinely curious.

     "Because you're angry," Sophie stated simply. "You have been for approximately a year, but you're too polite and too kind to go around pouring your frustrations and pent up anger onto others, even when they clearly deserve it."

     John's eyes were now fixed upon Sophie's, barely even blinking as he heard her every word in awe. She was really observant, but then again, given his behavior during the last ten minutes or so, it was all a bit too obvious...

     "But anger, John, anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured. I'm fairly certain you've heard something like this before... So, lash out if you have to. I'm the one bringing you back into this world so you might as well take it all on me, which is fine for I can handle that... I just can't handle the pressure of meeting the obscenely high standards Holmes has set."

     The moment Sophie stopped talking was also the moment a strange silence settled upon them. The place suddenly felt odd to John and he wasn't sure what to do or say or where to look at. Sophie was blunt honest yet understanding and he just... didn't know how to respond to that.

     "I'm sorry,” he said after a handful of seconds pushing his food around his plate again, unable to meet her eyes. However, when Sophie spoke again, he automatically stilled his hands and raised his head.

     “No, you’re not,” she told him casually as she turned her attention back to her salad.

     John gaped. What…? But, before he could protest, she continued as if she hadn’t noticed anything. “At least not quite yet… you should try the food instead of just play with it,” she commented. “In the mean time, if you have anything to say or ask, go for it.”

     John stared at the woman sitting across from him and then he shifted his eyes to his plate before looking back at Sophie. She seemed to be completely cool with all that, maybe she was even having some fun…

     He opened his mouth as if to say something, but quickly closed it. He did that a few more times before resigning and finally having a taste of the Beef Bourguignon he had ordered. It was really delicious and, for a split second, that was everything that John had in his mind – that and the fact that he’d just realised he had been really hungry.

     And it was just then, when he stopped thinking about everything that Sophie had said – about him being angry, how she couldn’t fit into Sherlock’s shoes and how she already knew his motivations to accept her invitation – that John knew what he really wanted to ask.

     “When you invited me to assist you,” he began after drinking some of his water. “Did you do that because of– my association with Sherlock? Be honest.”

     Sophie, who had raised her head and was listening intently to what John was saying, placed her fork aside and sat back. “Not entirely.”

     “Not entirely… But a little bit was because of that, wasn’t it?

     “A little bit in a way that I knew I wasn’t going to scar you for life once I brought you to the crime scene? Yes, it was.”

     “So, you knew I was going to say yes.”

     “Did I know for sure? No. But I was hoping you would.”

     “Why?” He pushed. “I don’t understand. I tried to and then I decided to ignore because it wouldn’t make any sense, but… why? I mean, you work with the Scotland Yard, you must have a handful of capable doctors and forensics and other people with extensive knowledge on people and death and cases… why me?”

     For the first time ever since that woman showed up in his flat, John saw something different flicker in her dark eyes. He wouldn’t dare say she was disturbed or shocked by his question, but she was showing signs of something that resembled a lot like resignation, contempt. Why? John didn’t know, but he figured it should be just a matter of time…

     Taking a long deep breath, Sophie locked eyes with John. “When I said you bring a new perspective, I meant that literally. You’re not a police detective or a sergeant and you do not work with crime scenes regularly. You’re unbiased… more or less. So, by bringing you in, by asking for your cooperation, you didn’t just give me a fresh pair of eyes, but you also gave me a mind free of prejudice.”

     John frowned. “Prejudice?”

     “Yes, prejudice… this morning, you asked me what I did before I became a DI, right?”

     He nodded. How could he forget?

     “Sometimes, knowledge is power… but sometimes, knowledge only makes things harder than they have to be.”

     John wanted to nod again, but he did not. Even though he understood what she was saying in between the lines, he still didn’t know what did that mean. “So, what you’re saying is…”

     Sophie shifted. “Before being a Detective Inspector with the Scotland Yard, I was a member of the Secret Intelligence Service.”

     Not being able to hold back his surprise, John’s eyes widened. The MI6. She was not messing up with him as he believed she was. Sophie Hunter was a former MI6 member. That was–

     “And that’s precisely the reason why, with the exception of Lestrade and a few others, the amount of people that work for the Scotland Yard and that I would rather _not_ work with is rather appalling. At first it was because they looked down on me for some reason I can’t fully comprehend, but I thought, with time, things would be different…”

     “Let me guess,” John said when she took longer than a couple of seconds to continue. “They are not.”

     “Oh, no,” Sophie replied as she grabbed her bottle of sparkling water and poured herself some more. “No, they are different. Although, different doesn’t mean better.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “I mean, when I’m working, not everyone will give me a blunt honest answer without thinking it through at least five times if not more, let alone dispute with me when they think I’m wrong, and that is unnerving and quite unhelpful to say the very least… you, on the other hand, didn’t do it. At least not until right now.”

     Blinking a few times, John pursed his lips together. Did he understand the reason why Sophie was that frustrated? Yes, he did. He knew enough about detective work to know that solving crimes wasn’t all about gathering data – you also had to correctly interpret the data, and it could be problematic when your assets are more like liabilities. But at the same time, he could also understand what it should be like to those poor sods that would work with her… He knew Mycroft, and he didn’t have to think about that one time when he worked a case for the older Holmes to know how the man was and how he seemed to have a finger on every single thing that happened in Great Britain (and God only knows what other places and countries) – maybe they were feeling pressured because of her previous “job”.

     Then, as he sat there, thinking of the British Government and all, something occurred to John.

     “Let me get this straight,” John said as he sat back on his chair. “You came to me because you wanted someone who wouldn’t be afraid of speaking their mind.”

     “That is quite correct.”

     “But I am not familiar with crime scenes and whatever techniques they teach you at… Detective’s school for solving cases.”

     “That is also quite correct.”

     “So, basically, I’m here to help you solving this murder, investigate the crime, and collect the data, even though I don’t wouldn’t understand a word of it myself?”

     “I didn't say that,” Sophie replied rather sternly, making John stop for a moment and think about what he’d just said.

     Without even noticing, John quoted Sherlock. And while he believed it would make him angry like before and perhaps drive him mad, that’s not what happened. Not really.

     “No... No, you did not,” he said, though it sounded more like he was thinking out loud.

     Despite the tone she’d used before, Sophie hadn’t become wary. Like she had told John before, if he was about to vent, she was fine with it. She wouldn’t take anything to a personal level because she knew, if he was in that kind of mood in the first place, that was entirely because of her and it was understandable. So much that she was already bracing herself for whatever it was that he had to say… and when she heard his simple “no, you did not”, Sophie almost gaped. Almost. She did raise her eyebrows in surprise, though.

     “Sorry about that,” John said, and Sophie’s eyebrows arched a bit more. “It’s just– doing this, with you… it is so similar yet so– different…”

     Even though he hadn’t been very explicit about what he was trying to say, Sophie got the message. "It is fine," she said understandingly. "You don't have to apologise. It's hard, I get it."

     "Thanks," John murmured appreciatively.

     "You're welcome."

     John was just about to turn his attention back to his forgotten meal when Sophie’s voice reached his ears once more.

     "I just told you that you can't avoid or erase your past… but, even if you could, you shouldn't."

     And it took him a while, but John found himself agreeing with her.

 

John and Sophie remained in silence for a handful of minutes as they finished their lunch — or at least John finished his lunch while Sophie, after having a simple salad, busied herself checking something on her phone.

     "Something's wrong?" John couldn't help but ask when she frowned.

     Sophie had been so absorbed while checking her messages that she had almost forgotten about the man sitting across from her. Almost.

     "What? Oh, no," she replied once her brain processed his question. "No, I mean... I just got this text from Lestrade and he said a few reporters were standing outside the New Scotland Yard's building, waiting for any breaking news on the case of Ronald Adair. They are loving this."

     John rolled his eyes. Even though those journalists were just doing their job, he still felt repulsion at the thought of a bunch of people trying to get a word, just one declaration so they could sell. Someone was dead and all they cared about was the headlines of the next paper? "Vultures..."

     Sophie couldn't hold back the smallest of smiles. "They are, aren't they?" She commented as she typed a quick reply. "Would you like some dessert?"

     John slightly furrowed his eyebrows. She had asked, but there was something about his tone that made him question what his answer should be.

     "Because I can wait a little longer if you do."

     If John wasn't sure if there was something going on when she asked him whether he'd want to have dessert or not, he was certain of it now. "Why? Something else happened?"

     "Do you remember what you said?" Sophie asked; she leaned forward a little and, without really noticing, John did the same. "Before we left my office?"

     "Uh..."

     "We didn't get anything from the names and you said that there—"

     "There must be something," he spoke, not exactly wanting to interrupting her, but accidentally doing so. "Yes, I remember..." How could he not? It was what Sherlock would often say: _there's always something_.

     "Great. Because there was something."

     Blinking a couple of times, John stopped the flow of thoughts and memories of his friend and directed his attention to the woman across from him. He had been right, there was something then. But, hold on... "Was?"

     "Sorry. There _is_ something," she corrected herself when she noticed John's expression; for a doctor, he was quite eager and very attentive when it came to the case itself. "Or at least there will be in a few more minutes."

     John nodded. He wanted to say he was following, but he wasn't really. "I'm sorry, what would it be? Because I don't..."

     His voice trailed off when he noticed Sophie was communicating with someone that was behind him. John glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the blond waiter walking towards them once again.

     "I'll have the check, please," she said and the young man replied with a polite "yes, ma'am".

     As soon as the tailored dressed waiter left, Sophie returned her attention to John. "With all the evidence and data that was collected from the crime scene, the forensic techs can recreate the crime scene and simulate all possible scenarios in which the death could have occurred."

     "So... Basically, what you are saying is that we may have a digital reconstitution of the murder?"

     The corners of Sophie's lips turned upwards, though not in amusement. His question had sounded a tad too careful.

     "Yes," she said simply, and watched as John shifted his gaze so he was gazing at the window, contemplating the outside.

     She sighed rather quietly, but was kept from saying anything, not even a simple comment whatsoever for the waiter had returned with the bill.

     "Oh, I'll get that."

     Sophie looked away from the piece of paper to find the former Army doctor reaching for it.

     "It's all right," she said, getting it out of his reach as she grabbed her wallet. "I invited you, remember?"

     "But you didn't even have anything," John argued, hand stretched out over the table. "Please, let me have the bill."

     But Sophie thoroughly ignored John's insistence; she simply took a few bank notes from her wallet and placed it into the tiny leather cover that the waiter had brought the bill in.

     "Next time, perhaps," she said as she handed it back to the waiter. "Sorry," Sophie spoke to the blond man standing right next to her. "We're in a hurry. Could you please pass my compliments to the chef? Everything was just divine. Have a nice day."

     "Likewise, ma'am."

     John could barely say a word to the waiter for he was too busy trying to keep up with Sophie, who had already stood from her seat and putting her coat back on.

     Murmuring a hasty "thanks" to the waiter, John jumped out of his chair and hurried to meet with Sophie. Now, that was another something he never thought he'd do again: run out of restaurants...

     They had just reached Sophie's car when their phones beeped. Sophie's and John's.

     This time, he didn't ignore it. As he got into the car, John opened his text message; it was from Harriet.

_Cancelled the reservation. Thought it was your day off. Call me later?_

_Harry._

     Pinching the bridge of his nose, John let out a sigh. He had completely forgotten he was to have lunch with his sister and her new girlfriend. He didn't really know why he'd agreed with such thing in the first place.

     "Something wrong?"

     John was parted from his thoughts by Sophie, who had taken the seat beside him.

     "Uh, no. Not really," he replied quickly. Perhaps too quickly because he noticed how Sophie's eyebrows furrowed.

     "It is really not that important," John added in a much more reassuring tone when it was clear that she wasn't buying any of that.

     A couple of seconds passed and Sophie and John stayed in complete and utter silence. The only sound they heard was of the world outside the car, until Sophie put an end to it.

     With a simple and decisive "all right then", she started the engine, put in first gear and got back on the streets of London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Seven

 

"If you don't mind my asking, how accurate you would say this could be?" John asked as he watched for the second time the video that Sergeant Peter Graham from the Scotland Yard had given to Hunter nearly as soon as they got back to her office.

     Just like she had said back at that French restaurant, the techs were able to come up with a digital reconstitution of a few possible scenarios that served to illustrate and also assist with the process of figuring out what could have happened at Park Lane.

     "Well, I'd say it could be very accurate," she said solemnly while going through the pages of the case file she had in her hands.

     John, who had been watching the faceless man on the screen get his head blown up for the third time, glanced at the woman right across from him. Once again, he was occupying her place behind the desk. "But...?"

     Sophie's hands stilled and she raised her head in order to meet John's blue eyes that she could tell were fixed on her. "But?"

     "It's just... the way you said _'it_ could _be very accurate'_ , I thought there was a _'but'_ coming," John explained. "Wasn't it?"

     "No," she said, pleasantly surprised. "I mean, yes. You were quite correct. Usually, these digital reconstruction videos are very accurate and they show us exactly what happened. However, we had a far few cases in the past where our reconstitution was almost polar opposite from what happened."

     Hearing that, John had to ask, "How so?"

     "Well," Sophie began. She shifted slightly in her seat, dropped the papers and focused her attention solely on John. "There was this case where the victim was beheaded and all the evidence pointed the cause of death as decapitation by a blade. Techs went pretty far and even added a guillotine to their 'possible death scenarios', even though it was highly unlikely... However, later on, they found out that the murder weapon was not a blade of any sorts; the head was severed from the body by a wire."

     John's eyes widened. "A wire?!"

     "Garroting wire to be more precise," Sophie replied as she sat back. "Made out of piano chords. Quite dramatic, I'd say, and ingenious."

     John's eyebrows arched up in surprise and he leaned back into Sophie's chair, making it recline a little. Dramatic and ingenious. Indeed it was.

     For a few seconds, John just sat there, soaking in everything he had just learned. Decapitation. Piano wires. It sounded like the kind of thing that he would find in a book or a movie... or maybe one of Sherlock's strange cases he had every now and then. Either way, there wasn't much he had to say about that but a simple and rather baffled "wow".

     For someone who was used to working without partners, Sophie found out she was having a fairly good time working with Doctor John Watson.

     "I think _wow_ pretty much sums up," she commented, not even bothering to hide her amusement.

     "I don't remember reading or hearing about that," John replied as he stopped the video and closed the laptop. He was suddenly interested in the beheading case.

     "That is because the press never heard of it," Sophie explained, pointing a pen she had in his hands right at him. "Not in great detail, that is."

     John furrowed his eyebrows a little as he searched his memory for anything that was slightly alike what Sophie had just told him but came out empty. Part of him wanted to ask more about that awfully interesting (albeit wicked) case, but John decided not to when he noticed Sophie's blank expression. Whatever it was, it didn't make to the press and it was clear enough that she wasn't going to start talking about it.

     "Okay," John nodded as he tried to push those thoughts aside so he could focus on the case he was assisting her on. "So, what do you think about this case and this video? I mean, do you think it can be useful or should we consider something... more ingenious?"

     Sophie took a deep breath and glanced at her desk which was full of papers and notes. Even though she could go through everything on her computer, Sophie liked that way better; she wasn't exactly helping the environment with all those sheets and printer ink, but at least she was trying to put a murderer behind bars.

     "Adair was killed in his study which was closed and no one else had been there," she said. Her eyes were gazing the view behind John and it gave him the impression that Sophie was just thinking out loud. Then, she fixed her eyes on to his. "Truthfully, John, do you think this could be any more ingenious? Better yet, is it necessary?"

     John opened his mouth, but he soon closed it without saying a word. Could it be any more ingenious? Well, maybe. But was it necessary? He looked around and made a quick assessment of the situation: they were stuck in Scotland Yard and all the leads they had thus far had gone cold. Up until right now, his answer would be no.

     Letting his head fall back slightly, John sighed.

     "All right," he said after a handful of seconds mulling over the stillness of the case. His level of frustration was getting higher and higher and he wasn't even a detective– _how did Sophie, Lestrade and everyone else manage?_

     John's eyes scanned the room and stopped once he found Sophie. She had left her seat and was standing in front of the white board again.

     Pushing his body off of the chair, John walked around the desk and stood right next to her. He noticed her left arm across her chest, hugging her mid-section while her right hand was covering her mouth, fingers softly drumming against her upper lip. She was deep in thoughts.

     John pressed his lips together and he tried to do whatever the hell Sophie was doing in a vain attempt to get into her mind or something, but it was useless.

     "Is, uh– is there anything... I can do?" he asked once he couldn't hold it anymore.

     Turning his head so he was looking at the brunette's profile, John waited for an answer. He'd be slightly satisfied if she asked him to go get some coffee because being idle was not so slowly driving him mad. Luckily, she didn't ask for coffee.

     "Look at this photo," said Sophie, pointing at one of the few photos she had put on her board.

     Taking a deep breath, John did as she had said. Not that he needed to, for she was indicating the photo of the victim, still at the crime scene, and John doubted he'd forget that image so soon.

     "I'm looking..."

     "Now," she took a step forward and took another photo in her hands before returning to her previous position. "What would you say?" Sophie asked, holding a photo right in front of him.

     John's eyebrows turned into a dubious frown. He thought she was just messing with him, but when she gave him a small nod, silently telling him to go ahead, he couldn't help but indulge.

     "It's a bullet," he said. "The one that was retrieved from a book, the one that killed the guy... wasn't it?"

     Once again, Sophie nodded, though this time she was more emphatic. "Yes, but what I meant is, putting both things together, what would you say about the case?"

     John looked at the photo of the bullet then at the victim's body and, in all honesty, he didn't have a lot to say...

     "C'mon," Sophie said and John couldn't miss how her tone was one of mild impatience, which made the man look away from the images and fix his gaze onto her. "Just say it. Whatever it is, say it."

     "But it's not like–"

     "John," she interrupted before he could finish that sentence. "One thing about detective work is that there is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact. So, if you don't mind..."

     For a few seconds, John did nothing but stare at Sophie. He wanted to argue, but he didn't know how so he didn't. Letting out a resigned sigh, John turned his attention back to the photos and the case.

     "All right then... I'd say that you have a dead body... and a bullet."

     Sophie nodded. "A body and a bullet. Correct. But...?"

     "But... no gun. Wait. No gun and an open window." He turned to face the brunette and he was slightly surprised to see a small smirk on her face.

     Suddenly, John understood what she was saying.

     "Right," she admitted. "The maid said she had started a fire and opened a window, which was closed, later that day, after the body was found."

     "So, we have a dead body, a bullet, no gun and an open window..." Sophie was watching John closely; it was almost as if she could see the engines inside his head working. His blue eyes met her dark ones and he saw a bit of excitement, like she was waiting for his big epiphany. "Could it have been a stray bullet?" But, as soon as he asked, John dismissed the possibility. "No. It's Park Lane. There were no shootings anywhere near the place last night, was there?"

     "Not that we were informed," Sophie answered simply. "No."

     As he looked at her, John could see in her eyes something akin to enthusiasm, though she seemed to be holding it back, waiting for John. He felt as if he was missing something. Something that should be staring right at him and he couldn't see. "Okay, so... I'm lost. What is it that you were thinking?"

     "That's it, I haven't," she said so abruptly –and quite enthusiastically– that John furrowed his eyebrows slightly. That was unexpected to say the least, but he didn't say that. In fact, he didn't say anything for Sophie continued to speak.

     "It's been staring at us right from the beginning and, somehow, I've been neglecting it for just as long... and so have you."

     "Me?"

     "Yes, you. John, you were in the Army."

     "I was, but..."

     Before John could say that he didn't see how any of those things were remotely connected, Sophie took the photo of the bullet from his head and put it right next to the victim's body.

     "Right next to a stray bullet, what can possibly do this?" She asked, but she really didn't have to.

     "Oh God," John murmured as he fixed his gaze on the two images. He had already put two and two together. "You don't think..."

     John's eyes searched for Sophie but she was no longer standing next to him. She had gone back to her desk and was typing quickly, eyes fixed on her computer screen.

     "You don't seriously think this could be the work of a sniper," he objected.

     "Oh, I don't think," she said nonchalantly, never glancing at him. "I am almost sure."

     With a deep frown twisting his features, John walked towards the desk. "Almost?"

     "I'd say about eighty per cent sure," Sophie replied blankly as she typed some more.

     "But it's Park Lane!" John cried.

     "Exactly." Sophie finally looked away from the screen. "It is Park Lane, City of Westminster, Central London and still Mr. Ronald Adair died, in his home, closed in his sitting room and no one heard a thing. It makes sense, John."

     John looked from Sophie to the screen and then right back at the brunette detective. "But what you're suggesting–"

     "I'm not suggesting," she corrected him. "The facts are."

     "All right. What you are saying, that's... that's just..."

     However, before John could even finish whatever he was going to say, the door to Detective Inspector Hunter's office opened and Lestrade walked through.

     "Hey, I've got your text," he said as he stepped inside the room. "It was rather disappointing, I must admit, especially because it took my entire morning to get those names, however," he held yet another case file before Sophie's eyes. "I have some news."

     "Ballistics report?" she asked as she reached out to take the folder from Lestrade's hands.

     "Mostly, yes," the older detective said with a short nod as he looked around, inspecting the room. His eyes lingered a few seconds longer on the white board and he walked towards it so he could have a better look at it. "But I also heard from Sergeant Lewis, who was running background check on Edith Woodley..."

     John had been standing like a statuesque next to Sophie; that is until he heard that new piece of information. "Sorry, Edith Woodley?"

     Without taking her eyes from the papers she was reading, Sophie simply turned her head slightly to the left so she could address John in a less rude manner. "Mr. Adair's former fiancée," she explained simply. Then, she raised her voice just a little and added, now speaking to Lestrade, "And?"

     "Nothing alarming," he replied nearly emotionless. "Only she's in a relationship with an old friend of her late former fiancé."

     Hearing that made John fidget a little. "An old friend?" His eyes shifted to Sophie but it was like she hadn't heard a thing, so he turned his attention back to Lestrade. "How close were Ronald Adair and this _old friend_ of his?"

     "Very close," the other man replied, turning on his heels to look at John, who seemed to be on to something, but his thoughts were quickly disturbed by Sophie.

     "Not a crime of passion, John," she said monotonously. "This had nothing to do with one's love affairs."

     John watched as she turned the page she was reading and continued to study the ballistics report. Part of him wanted to ask how she knew what he was going to suggest, but then he remembered she was a detective. It should be in the job description or a job requirement to think forward or something. But then again, he believed he was being reasonable in at least considering such thing. I mean, they were engaged once, and some people can do crazy things for love.

     "Rose Marie Coleman."

     John was pulled from his train of thoughts when he heard Lestrade. Blinking a couple of times, he looked right at the man he'd known for a very long while now. "Sorry, what?"

     "The victim's friend who's currently in a relationship with Edith Woodley," Lestrade said simply. "Her name is Rose Marie Coleman."

     And then, it hit him. "Oh. Right..."

     John and Lestrade exchanged a glance; the doctor was just about to ask the detective if there was anything else when Sophie's voice made itself heard again.

     "I knew it," she exclaimed, making both men turned to face her. However, Sophie didn't acknowledge the inquisitive frown that was plastered on their faces–she was too busy typing again.

     Once again, John searched for Lestrade with hopes that the man knew what was going on there, but the man looked just as clueless. They were all in the same boat.

     "What is it?" John asked, and Lestrade soon added an equally intrigued "What did you know?"

     "I cannot believe I missed that," Sophie murmured through gritted teeth and shook her head in annoyance. She continued to work on her computer and continued to ignore the two men standing by her right. "God, I'm getting slow."

     Then, before John could ask what she was talking about, he heard Lestrade speaking right next to him.

     "What the hell is going on, Sophie?" he asked; his voice was a mix of impatience and urgency that was borderline desperate. And it was too much for Sophie to miss it, so she stopped typing and turned to face the two men that were looking at her so expectantly.

     "Adair's death."

     Lestrade waited for a couple of seconds, hoping that Sophie would elaborate on that, but she wasn't as fast as he expected her to be.

     "Yeah... What about it?" He inquired.

     She looked at the two men and spoke the few words that neither John not Greg were expecting to hear: "I know who did it."

     John and Lestrade exchanged a look and Sophie couldn't miss the fact that their reaction to that was the same: their eyes were wide open and for a couple of seconds, they both were stripped off of their abilities to process any information or even speak properly, so taken aback by what Sophie had just said.

     "What?" John blurted out as soon as he managed to overcome the shock.

     "How?" asked a still half-astonished Lestrade, joining John in the one word question bandwagon.

     "Well, to be fair, I don't know the name of the person who did it," Sophie said casually, leaning back on her chair. "But I've seen this before," she added when Lestrade looked like he was about to go into a huff. "About six years ago, a woman was found dead in Lauder. Cause of death was declared as a single shot to the head and forensics extracted a 9mm round from her body."

     Lestrade nodded. "I've heard of that. She was found in her house. But they arrested the husband and he's sti–"

     "No." Sophie didn't even try to be subtle; shaking her head, she interrupted Lestrade in a rather blunt manner, making the older detective address her look of surprise and intrigue. "No. It wasn't the husband," she added quickly. "The investigators wrapped the case as such, but trust me; it could not have been him."

     Greg needed to ask. "Why? How are you so certain that the husband couldn't have done it? The jury found him guilty..."

     However, as soon as those words left Lestrade's mouth, he realised how poor it was. He didn't have to look at John, who was openly staring at him, to be reminded of the trial of James Moriarty...

     "Yeah," he said with a short nod. Much like John, Sophie had her eyes fixed on his and judging by the slightly defiant expression she had plastered on her face, she knew exactly what he was thinking about, but she never said a word. "Let's just... But how do you know?"

     "Everything they had on the husband was circumstantial," Sophie said slightly exasperated. "Cause of death was determined as a single shot to the head, but they didn't find the murder weapon. Conveniently, the victim's husband had history of violence and a record, so they sold a story and people bought it. But the only way the husband could've done that it's if he was standing on a chair or something because of the angle of the shot, not to mention he would have to have vast knowledge of weapons and engineering because the bullet was altered." With a swift movement, Sophie turned the screen of her computer in a way that Lestrade could have a better look at what it was showing. It was a photograph from Mrs. Stewart, the woman that was murdered in Lauder. The injuries she sustained were oddly alike the ones Adair had; almost one third of her head was blown up.

     "You don't get a scene like that with a standard 9mm," Sophie said sternly and Lestrade looked at her.

     She was right and the Detective Inspector knew it. Hell, everyone in that room knew it! A regular 9mm couldn't cause that level of damage unless it had been modified. And even though Lestrade knew that way before Sophie had mentioned, part of him just didn't want to believe they were dealing with a murderer that was so damn clever. Those were the worst.

     "Okay. So, just... let me get this straight, you are saying that it was the same shooter?"

     "Yes."

     In other circumstances, the fact that the murderer was implied in another investigation should cheer Lestrade a little. In other circumstances. That wasn't the case. As soon as he heard Sophie's answer, Lestrade closed his eyes and let out a frustrated sigh.

     "But why?" Lestrade questioned, his tone a note higher than the usual, showing how unpleased with the whole thing he was. "I mean, why? Why would anyone kill both Adair and... Mrs. Stewart? The amount of things that they have in common is zero."

     By then, Lestrade and John, who was just being a mere spectator of that conversation, were looking rather expectantly at the woman behind the desk. But she didn't provide them with an answer right away. Instead, she simply studied their faces for a few seconds and then, much to their displeasure, the left corner of her lip turned up.

     "It is, isn't it?" She said, but judging by her tone not above a whisper, she was probably just thinking out loud. "That narrows it down."

     Both John and Lestrade exchanged a confused look again. Clearly they weren't following.

     "What does?" John asked the one question that they've been thinking.

     "We may not be completely in the dark," she murmured as she pulled her phone and quickly typed a text message.

     "He has killed twice," she stated after placing the phone back in her coat pocket. "The shooter. He has made two victims that we know of. Maybe they weren't the only ones."

     "All right, so... we expand the search?" Lestrade suggested. "Mrs. Stewart was from Scotland, Adair was killed in London. If he's acting all over Britain..."

     "He's dropped more bodies," Sophie finished his thoughts. "Yes, that's likely, but expanding the search would only slow us down. I have a better idea."

     Lestrade frowned. What on Earth did she mean by "better idea"? If they expanded their search, they could get a lead that could end up leading them to the killer and, wasn't that what they were doing?! But he didn't really have time to ask her those questions for she stood from her seat.

     "Where's Donovan?" Sophie asked as she grabbed the coat she had left on the back of her chair.

     "Home, she volunteered to help with the clubs and all, it's actually her day-off... where are you going?"

     " _We_ are going to Park Lane," Sophie told Lestrade as she straightened her coat. "Get Campbell and meet us there, I have to stop off somewhere else first. John, you're coming or would you like to go with Lestrade?"

     Blinking a couple of times, John looked at both Sophie and Lestrade. The two detectives were looking at him rather expectantly. "Me? Uh– I'll come with you."

     Even though he didn't really know what had just happened, John followed Sophie as she walked out of her office. However, before he left, he glanced over his shoulder and saw the older detective checking something on Sophie's computer. Judging by how he closed his eyes and sighed, he was definitely not seeing pictures of kittens and puppies.

–

For a place that had been crowded with police cars less than twenty four hours ago, Park Lane was now strangely calm, and if it wasn't for the police tapes that were put on the front door of 427 to isolate the area –and the fact that it had been all over the news–, not many people would have guessed that someone was found dead there the night before.

     Even though No. 427 was signaled as a crime scene and the words "CRIME SCENE-DO NOT ENTER" were clearly visible on the barrier tape, it didn't stop the blond man from trespassing.

     Surprisingly enough, there were no police officers on watch –at least no one was in sight–, but he didn't want to take the chance of being arrested for breaking into a crime scene so he swiftly turned to this narrow corridor between 427 and 429, jumped over the gate that was the only barrier between him and the backyard of the Adair's residence, which, much like the house, was dead empty.

     Not having to worry about cops or any other unwanted attention upon him, he produced two tools from a pick set and quickly worked on the back door. Didn't take him thirty seconds to get in.

     Remembering what he'd read on the online page of a newspaper, the blond figure walked through the kitchen, through the dining area, passed by the living area and climbed up the stairs, finally reaching the sitting room.

     Because he had been careful enough to wear gloves, he didn't worry about leaving fingerprints all over the crime scene. He was fairly certain it had been processed already, but nonetheless. Better not take any chances.

     With utmost care, he walked across the space while studying every inch of the room. The Persian mat was still tainted with blood which was explained by the fact that the body was found only the day before and, because the Scotland Yard was still working on the case, cleaning the crime scene was not an option. Not just yet.

     His eyes worked pretty fast, taking in ever little detail, after all, "The little things are infinitely the most important," he murmured, speaking to himself as he found something that caught his attention.

     Tiptoeing around the desk, his eyes landed on the bookcase. The entire furnish was filled with compendiums, tomes, all sorts of literary, except for one shelf.

     Brushing his fingers on the vacant spot, the blond man thought to himself what could have happened to the book that was sitting on that particular place. Then, as he looked around once more, he noticed something that made the left corner of his lip turn slightly upward.

     "Interesting..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think so far?  
> Thank you for reading.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> I am aware of the fact that Molly owns a cat named Toby, but I just really like canine Toby so I decided to write him in. Also, I kind of have plans for him in the future.

Chapter Eight

 

From the passenger seat of the black Freelander 2, John Watson frowned. He'd been staring out of the front window for the last few minutes and he was beginning to recognise the neighbourhood and all the streets Sophie was driving through.

     "I'm uh– I'm sorry but... where are we going?"

     "Oh, I just need to make a quick stop at my place," she said casually, briefly looking away from the street.

     She just glanced at John, but those brief seconds in which she contemplated the man’s features was more than enough. His eyes staring intently as he studied the streets and corners and there were lines around his mouth as he pursed his lips; for a moment, she mistook that for anger. Her first thought was that it didn’t make much sense for he had said he wanted to come with her in the first place... but then it dawned on her and Sophie looked at John out of the corner of her eye once more. His breathing pattern was slightly altered and his hands were quite restless. It wasn't anger what John was feeling. It was apprehension.

     "I'm sorry," she said softly as she took the last turn that would take them to her flat. "I should've told you before... I live in Baker Street."

     By the time she said that, John couldn't help but think that it was really unnecessary. They already were at Baker Street. And he also couldn't help but think that it looked just the same. Same buildings, same façades, same coffee shop with the red awning that read "SPEEDY'S" in big white writings right next to 221B.

     On the outside, nothing had changed... though he knew about one flat that would never be the same, and he knew about one person who lived there that would never be the same.

     Without noticing, John sighed. It's been a long time since the last time he'd been there. He didn't mean to avoid Baker Street, but he had done just that. And when his eyes landed on the familiar building where he lived for about two years, he briefly wondered how Mrs. Hudson was doing... It's been an equally long time since John last spoke with the kind old woman who was once his landlady. He felt rude now for not stopping by to say hello, or for a cup of tea, or for not calling her. Jesus, he felt really awful.

     "You can wait in the car if you want to..."

     John was abruptly pulled from his train of thoughts by Sophie. It was only then that he realised she had parked her vehicle almost in front of 221B, though across the street.

     "Sorry," he said, blinking a couple of times and turning his head so he was facing her. "What?"

     "I'll be back in a minute," Sophie told him as she unbuckled her seatbelt and pulled the key out of the ignition. "You are welcome to come, but you can also wait here if you want to..."

     "Uh..." John thought about that for a couple of seconds, and he glanced at the cafe across the street when an unsettling thought crossed his mind. "Sorry, but... where do you live?"

     There was a moment of silence before Sophie answered him. If she said 221B, then John didn't know what he was going to do. Sure she could live anywhere she wanted to, and as far as he knew, 221B could be vacant, but still...

     "220," she finally said. "Black door, right over there."

     "I'm coming."

 

"Oh, just so you know," Sophie said once they reached the door of her flat. "He's harmless."

     John's eyebrows furrowed with confusion. What was she talking about? "He?"

     But Sophie didn't answer, which, by the way, John was beginning to see as a habit of hers, not answering some things and smiling instead, like that was a perfectly reasonable response. It really wasn't, but John didn't say a word about that because he was quite surprised with what he saw when Sophie finally unlocked the door of her flat.

     To be fair, he heard before he saw. The barking that reached his ears the moment she opened the door was enough to wipe out all the question marks that Sophie's lack of answer had left in his mind.

     "Come in," she said as she told the dog to sit and he immediately obeyed. Now that was rather impressive. "Don't worry," Sophie added when she saw the look in John's face; his eyes were a bit wide and he was staring. "Like I said, Toby is harmless."

     Now John didn't have a problem with dogs. He was actually quite fond of them, but nonetheless, he needed to ask if she was sure about that, because Toby was looking at him in a rather funny way as he sat there, statuesquely, by the door, only he didn't know if it was a funny good or a funny bad.

     "A hundred per cent sure," she assured him. "He was a sniffer dog; he just wants to sniff you."

     Trusting Sophie's words, John finally stepped inside the house. He was a little apprehensive, but turns out she was right: Toby was quite harmless. The medium-sized dog did sniff John all over and licked his hand once he was done.

     An easy smile made its way to John's lips and he found himself smiling as he scratched the dog between his long, drooping ears. "Hello there, buddy."

     Almost as if he knew John was talking to him, Toby gave this soft cry and nudged his hand with his cold nose.

     Now, Toby may not be the prettiest dog that John had ever seen—not by a long shot. The brown and white dog was definitely not a pure breed; the doctor assumed he was most likely a strange mix of Spaniel and something else, a lurcher maybe, with a rather clumsy gait and, if he had any more strength, that tail of his could be a weapon—but he was quite congenial, that much was undeniable.

     "Is he yours?" John asked once Toby seemed to have lost the interest in him and waddled across the living room.

     "Mine?" Sophie retorted from the room that John assumed to be the kitchen. "Oh, no. Toby belongs Mr. Sholto, a retired British Army Major and friend of Mary's late father... he went on vacations, asked us to watch him and, well, we couldn't say no."

     "I see..."

     "But please," Sophie told him once she got out of the kitchen and got back into the living room. "Make yourself at home. I just need to get something..."

     "All right," John replied with a short nod, but Sophie didn't quite see that for she was already going to her bedroom, most likely.

     Not wanting to intrude or be inappropriate, John averted his eyes from the brunette and looked around. Without noticing, he started to make comparisons between Sophie's flat and the flat across the street.

     Even though the outside of the two buildings looked basically the same, on the inside they were quite different. It could be because Sophie didn't pile up a bunch of paper, journals, books all over her living room and dining area and her kitchen didn't hold this absurd assortment of laboratory glassware and science equipment that could turn the room into an actual laboratory, but her flat seemed considerably bigger than the one he used to live.

     Three out of the four walls were painted in a beige tone and the one adjacent to the entrance door was the only one that had a white and brown wallpaper with a classic pattern—or maybe it was vintage, John didn't really know how to name the concept.

     The spacious room was illuminated by two broad windows on the wall opposite to the entrance door and dining area and the furnishing and decoration were very exquisite in terms of taste and class. Two ivory armchairs sat in front of the fireplace facing each other and they matched the sofa that was placed against the wall. There was a stand placed on each side of the couch; each of them supported a lamp and were both made of some dark wood. In fact, every piece of furniture that contained wood (or anything that was supposed to resemble wood) was dark brown: the two bookcases on both sides of the fireplace, the frame of the paintings on the walls, the coffee table in the middle of the room... With the exception of the books and the paintings and a few other objects, Sophie's living room was essentially shades and hues of ivory and brown. But instead of looking dull, it was very charming, especially with the shiny black grand piano that sit near one of the two windows.

     "Yep. Quite different from what I am used to," John muttered to himself as he walked with slow and small steps across the living room.

     His fingers brushed against the polished surface of the instrument as he approached one of the windows. _Quite different, but almost the same,_ he thought briefly once he stopped near the piano and fixed his eyes on the building on the other side of the street.

     As he stood there, John felt as if something had happened with time and he was thrown into his past. But, this time, he didn't complain, or fought with it. No. This time, John simply took a deep breath and allowed his mind to wander and bring back some memories from his best friend. John had lost count of how many times he had seen Sherlock stand in front of the window, violin cradled between his shoulder and tilted head as he played, eyes fixed on the outside, staring into the nothingness, completely absorbed in the chords and notes and tunes.

     John also seemed to be absorbed in his own thoughts and memories for he didn't notice the soft click of the lock and the door of Sophie's flat was slowly pushed open.

 

As soon as she got to her bedroom, Sophie closed the door behind her and headed to her bathroom.

     She couldn't have been vaguer when she told John that she just needed to get something, but the good thing was that he didn't make any questions or anything. It was as if he really didn't care what she was about to do, which was great because, in all honesty, Sophie was searching for something she had kept stored for quite a while now, and while John had been incredibly helpful –more than some of her co-workers she dared think–, that was something she didn't know whether she should or should not share with the kind doctor.

     However, whatever doubts and questions she had whether she was doing the right thing or not, were quickly eradicated when she found what she was looking for. Out of her vanity case, Sophie took her compact.

     To everyone, that was literally an ordinary makeup item –a small round case containing pressed powder cake and a powder puff– though for Sophie was more than that. Holding the case open in one hand, she eased her nail on a tiny imperfection, barely visible on the bottom of the mirror and, ever so gently, pulled it out. Even though she knew it was there, the brunette let out a breath she unconsciously held when the microSD she had been looking for came into view.

     Sophie stood there, staring at the small device for a few seconds before she placed the mirror back where it belonged, concealing the card once again, and put her makeup bag back into the first drawer of the small cabinet beneath the sink. The compact along with the microSD were currently in the pocket of her coat.

 

"I strongly advise you not to do this."

     John's blood ran cold in his veins and he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard those few words.

     It took a couple of seconds until John was able to show any kind of reaction—he was completely taken by surprise, and it showed in the way he turned around. He had moved so fast that it should be a miracle how he didn't hurt his neck.

     "And you're not who I thought you were... who are you?"

     "Ehm... I, uh–"

     In all honesty, that was definitely not John's finest moment, he had to admit. But, in his own defense, he didn't know what he expected to find—or who—and it only added to the surprise factor that had taken over him already when his eyes landed on the person that had just talked to him. Twice.

     Standing right in front of the still partially open door, was a woman. But she was hardly any woman. She –whoever she was– had short blonde hair and expressive eyes. The blonde wasn't as tall as Sophie, but was rather dainty, and despite the simplicity of her wardrobe, her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual and sympathetic.

     As he stood there, mouth slightly open and not able to form any coherent sentences, one thought crossed his mind, and while John didn't think he believed in love at first sight, he found himself thinking that all his life, he had never looked upon a face which gave him a clearer promise of a refined sensitive nature.

     "I..."

     "Okay, got it. Would you like something before we le– _oh_."

     Sophie was focused on her phone and she didn't instantly notice that John wasn't the only person in her living. It was only when she glanced at where she'd last seen the doctor and saw that he was looking in a rather intent manner towards the door that she stopped talking and walking and turned her attention to the petite blonde.

     "Mary... I thought you'd be working until three today."

     "I was going to," the woman named Mary replied as she finally closed the door behind her. "But then I remembered you were working and Toby was home alone and you would probably forget to feed him so I skipped my lunch break and got home earlier."

     Placing her phone in the front pocket of her coat, Sophie rolled her eyes. "I didn't forget to feed him," she feigned annoyance.

     "Yes, you did. I know you. But that's fine. So, who is your friend? I first thought it was Lestrade, but clearly..."

     "Oh, sorry. This is John," Sophie said as she looked at the man standing next to the piano. He didn't seem to have moved a muscle. "Doctor John Watson. He's assisting me... John, this is my flat mate, Mary Morstan."

     Hearing his name and noticing what Sophie was doing made John snap out of his reverie. He closed the distance between him and the two women and reached out a hand.

     "Hi," he said. Surprisingly enough, John felt a bit shy as he shook hands with the blonde — Mary Morstan. He must have looked like a complete idiot standing there and not saying a word. "Nice to meet you. It is, really nice to meet you..."

     John didn't know what was going on, but he felt as if he was just about to blush when the corner of Mary's lips turned upwards despite her efforts to suppress a smile.

     "Why, thank you," said the blonde kindly when John blinked a couple of time and pursed his lips. "It is my pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson."

     "Please," he said, feeling slightly less self-conscious. "John."

     Mary's eyebrows arched a bit and she slightly tilted her head to the right. "John," she said and, this time, she couldn't keep her smile hidden any longer.

     John found himself smiling back at her. How could he not? She wasn't just smiling with her lips, she was also smiling with her eyes. Her big blue eyes, beautiful like a clear morning sky of a summer day, he found out.

     "Okay," Sophie said as she sauntered by the two of them and headed to the door. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but John, we got to get going."

     John looked away from Mary and he found Sophie looking at them with this not-so-veiled amusement plastered on her face. For the second time in less than an hour, John felt embarrassed.

     "Right. Sure. Ehm... It was— really nice meeting you," he said, turning to face the blonde once again. He noticed Mary wasn't the least bit affected by anything.

     "Likewise," Mary replied with a smile on her lips. Then, just as nonchalantly, she turned to Sophie, who was still waiting for John. "Be home at a decent hour, young lady. I'll make pasta."

     John couldn't miss the look that Sophie addressed Mary as he walked through the door. She knit her eyebrows together in a puzzled fashion.

     "What are you?" She replied almost quizzically. "My mother? And you've become Italian or…?"

     John's eyebrows also furrowed and he just had to turn around and look at Mary. His expression softened and changed into one of veiled surprise when he noticed the blonde woman was smirking with a hand on her hip.

     "I'll have dinner served at seven," Mary said simply.

     With a rather exaggerated roll of her eyes, Sophie crossed the threshold. "I may be late." She was just about to shut the door closed when she opened it once again. "Oh, and Mary, fish and chips instead of pasta."

     John was a couple of steps away but he heard it all right when Mary all but shouted from the flat: _I am not your bloody maid!_ And it kind of surprised him when he saw Sophie giggling as she closed the door behind her.

     As they descended the stairs of 220, John had to admit that his "return to Baker Street" went out rather smoothly and, it was fairly pleasant in a way.

–

Less than ten minutes later, Sophie parked her black Freelander 2 into a vacant spot a somewhat near 427. She didn't get to stop right in front of the residence for a police car was already there, but she didn't mind walking a little bit more.

     "If you don't mind my asking," John said as soon as he got out of the vehicle. "What are we doing here again?"

     "Trying to figure out who is our sniper... Or at least learn some more about him."

     The way she said that, so casually and collected made John furrow his eyebrows and turn his head so that he was looking at the woman by his side. So, they did have a sniper in London, he had killed a man in Park Lane... and Sophie was the epitome of outward composure. How did she manage that?

     His mind worked a few questions that needed answers, like the obvious _"how are you so calm about this?"_ or the not so obvious _"do we even know anything about this man?"_. However, just when he was about to ask, some blond man that was walking the opposite direction accidentally bumped onto Sophie.

     "Oh, I'm sorry," he said apologetically, as he automatically reached out and held Sophie by her arms.

     The way the man spoke, made John glance at him for a few seconds. Blond hair, moustache and beard, pale skin, pointed nose, not so thin lips; for a split second the lines and angles of the man's sharp profile reminded him of his best friend, but John dismissed that idea almost instantly, because _a)_ Sherlock was at least seven inches taller than that man, _b)_ he had never seen the consulting detective wearing anything that weren't his suits outside, and while that man's wardrobe was mainly black, grey and blue (the colours that Sherlock would wear), he was wearing jeans, sneakers, t-shirt, hoodie _and_ a leather jacket —too much fashion, too little classic to Sherlock's standards— and last, but not least, there was the simple fact that _c)_ Sherlock was dead and that man was very much alive. Shaking his head, John averted his eyes and looked around, that had been foolish and he focused his mind on the case once more.

     However, even though he wasn't looking straight at the man anymore, John Watson didn't miss the singularity of his speech. The blond had a grave voice and the words sounded rather melodic when he talked, like they had a much purer sound than what he was used to. Could be Danish, maybe? Or Swedish? He couldn't tell for sure, however, one thing John knew: that clumsy man was clearly not English. And maybe it was because he seemed to be a tourist that Sophie didn't seem angry at all about that little accident.

     "Don't worry about that," she replied gently, offering him a small reassuring smile.

     Much like the stranger, once their shoulders bumped, Sophie instantly reached out in a way to keep her balance and keep the man from losing his as well. "No one got seriously hurt," she added softly as she let go of him.

     "Yes. I am _so_ sorry," he said again before resuming his walk and distancing himself from them.

     John kind of expected Sophie to do the same, but the brunette detective stood still for a couple of seconds, and she even glanced over her shoulder and watched the man walking away.

     "Is there... something wrong?" John asked and he also looked over his shoulder and watched when the stranger disappeared around the corner.

     "No," Sophie answered casually. Looking straight ahead, she finally began to walk again. "Nothing is wrong. It's just– our victim, Ronald Adair... he lived abroad."

     John took a couple of long and hurried steps so he was standing next to Sophie once again. "He lived in Australia for a few years," he said, merely reciting what he had read from the file the Scotland Yard had compiled on the victim and the case.

     Sophie nodded before adding, "Where his father still resides and works at the British Embassy."

     "Wait a minute... do you think this could be an old thing?" John asked when they approached No. 427. "Or that it could have something to do with Mr. Adair's father?"

     Sophie opened the front door of 427 and allowed John inside first.

     "Honestly? I have no idea," she answered rather evasively. "I just thought about it..."

     Deep down, Sophie disliked deceiving John. Because that's what she was doing–she was being deceiving. Because that wasn't the first time she thought of that. No. She considered those possibilities and a couple others the night before, after she became acquainted of who the victim was and after she visited the crime scene. There wasn't one small part of her that believed that Ronald Adair died because of something that could've happened in Australia or because of his father. However, Sophie decided to go with that because the alternative was just quite harder to deal with.

     She followed John as they climbed the stairs. Sophie intently let the man walk in front of her because she needed space; not from John, but space. She was dealing with a murder and a sniper shooter in central London, which was bad enough, but now, on top of that, she had something else in her mind...

     Before they reached the upper floor, Sophie slid her right hand into the right pocket of her coat. Her fingertips brushed against the small, thin object that she'd slipped there and she inhaled deeply.

 

As soon as he left the major road, the blond man hailed a taxi and gave the cabbie the address. The driver simply muttered a "yes, sir" as he returned to the streets once the door was shut closed.

     On the backseat, the man stared out of the window of the car for a few moments. Without noticing, he sat back, brought his right hands to his face so the knuckles of his index finger was nearly touching his bottom lips; it was a habit of his to do that when he was thinking and he had quite a lot to think about: 427, the missing book from the bookcase, broad windows, an acquaintance and a brunette. Speaking of which...

     Taking a deep breath, he took a small folding case from the pocket of his leather jacket. It resembled a wallet, but when he opened it, there wasn't any money or anything slightly like it. It was an identification, and it belonged to Detective Inspector Sophie Hunter.

     "Scotland Yard," he muttered to himself as he closed the leather case and put it back in his pocket. It's been a while since he'd seen one of those ID badges.

     "We're here, sir."

     Breaking from his thoughts, he paid the driver with a couple of bills and stepped out of the black vehicle. He stood on the sidewalk for a few seconds, hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket, eyes fixed on the building in front of him. It has also been a while since he had been there for the last time.

     221B, Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think, please?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> This story has not been Beta read and because English isn't my first language, I apologise in advance for any mistakes you might find.

Chapter Nine

 

When Sophie and John walked into the sitting room, Lestrade and Campbell, a forensic lab tech working with the Scotland Yard, were already there; the Detective Inspector was pacing in front of the fireplace while talking on the phone and the latter was setting the equipment nearest the table. Both of them acknowledged their arrival, though only one voiced it.

     "Oh, I should've known," Campbell said as soon as the brunette detective and her companion crossed the threshold.

     John's reaction was instant. He stopped on his tracks, face twitching into an expression of puzzlement as he looked at the ginger woman who was working on a tripod of some sort. Was she talking to him? She couldn't be, could she? John didn't remember ever seeing that woman before in his life... It was only when he heard a rather amused huff behind him that he realised that no, she was definitely _not_ talking to him.

     "So delighted to see you, too, Emma." Despite the very evident annoyance present in the other woman's —Emma's— voice, Sophie simply glanced at her and smirked.

     John looked at Sophie then back at the ginger that went by the name of Emma Campbell; Emma addressed Sophie yet another glare, but the twitch of her lips told him she wasn't half as upset as she pretended to be.

      "Why didn't you bring Anderson?" Emma asked, clearly talking to Sophie as she placed the final piece to the tripod before proceeding to check the photos to make the final adjustments. "He looked like a kicked puppy when Lestrade said you asked for me... I almost felt sorry for the guy."

     "And I almost believed that," Sophie muttered, though it had been loud enough for everyone to hear.

     Emma did a very poor job at trying to suppress her amusement and a soft chuckle escaped her lips, while John knit his eyebrows together for about half a second.

     He had known Anderson, and he knew that the two women were sharing some sort of joke, which he both did and did not understand.

     "But, honestly, why didn't you bring him?" Emma insisted. "I mean, Anderson was at the crime scene last night, wasn't he?"

     "Yes," Sophie said with a short nod as she walked with short and slow steps the length of the room, and judging by her whole expression, John could tell she was scanning the place — even though she had done that at least three times before. "Yes, he was... but I assumed he just had a lot of work to do..."

     "You what?" Emma instantly averted her eyes from the photos and she looked up, searching for Sophie.

     The puzzlement that could easily be noticed in the ginger's voice could also be seen for she had an eyebrow arched and a look of disbelief plastered on her face.

     But Sophie didn't see that. Suddenly, she was strangely interested on the rug.

     "That's... Tha– Wow." Shaking her head, Emma tried to push that aside. That was a very, very ridiculous excuse, especially for Sophie, who was all about things making sense and whatnot, but when she noticed the woman's undivided focus and how she had nearly knelt to the ground and was thoroughly examining whatever it was that she had found on the carpet, the ginger tech knew that talking to her right now would be the same as talking to a door. Useless and unproductive.

     Emma was just about to go back to her tripod when she noticed the statuesque of a man standing there. She had seen him before, but then, his presence was briefly obfuscated by the detective to whom she had to ask a few questions that she momentarily forgot about him. Momentarily.

     "Who are you?" She asked, turning so she was looking right at him.

     Ever since they got there, at the crime scene and Sophie and Emma started chatting, John hadn't moved.

     He had exchanged a brief look with Lestrade the moment he got there and had witnessed the entire exchange between Sophie and Emma, but he felt slightly out of place for a while, he didn't know where he was supposed to be or what he was supposed to do so, he just stood there. And he was just considering whether he should walk over to Sophie and ask her if there was anything he could do or if he should just wait outside and let them do their job when Emma's question brought him back to reality.

     It was a simple question and it was obviously directed to him because he was the only person in that place that did not work for the Scotland Yard, but the way it had been asked (rather bluntly) and how Emma was staring at him (quite inquisitively) made John hesitate. "I, uh– I'm John... John Watson."

     "John Watson," Emma echoed, as if testing the words — or the name. Her eyebrows knitted together and the look in her eyes became more intense, which made the uncomfortable sensation that John was feeling increase about ten times, maybe more. "That name doesn't sound strange... do I know you?"

     "Ehm... I don't think so," John said, but that answer didn't seem to appease Emma for she furrowed her eyebrows slightly and tilted her head to the right a little.

     "Are you sure? Because... I don't know," she murmured and John shifted a bit. "There's something almost– _familiar_ about you..."

     The way she said that, familiar, made John avert his eyes and look away for a moment. He had been in that situation more times than he dared to count before and he was thinking how he was going to get himself out of that when he heard Sophie's voice.

     "Oh, give the man a break, Emma," she said as she stood up. "You're making him uncomfortable. You must be mistaking him for that American you went out a couple of times last year... What was his name? Larry? Perry?"

     "It was Danny," she said and Sophie nodded. Emma didn't seem all convinced at first, but after a few seconds, she gave up. "And, oh well, maybe you're right. I think it's the moustache... or the eyes... Anyway, sorry about that, John. I'm Emma."

     John tried to smile back at the ginger woman but that didn't work out nicely. Instead, he muttered a simple "hi" as he was still feeling a bit awkward.

     He didn't know exactly what had happened there, but he was grateful for it. And when he looked at Sophie, the way she was looking at him told him that, even though she wasn't responsible, she was feeling bad about it. So much that she mouthed a heartfelt "sorry" when their eyes met. But John knew better than to blame it on her so he just shook his head and tried to smile at her sympathetically — he succeeded, in a way.

     Sophie and John had stepped closer to the table and were simply observing Emma as she made some final adjustments when Lestrade finally joined them.

     Before today, it's been quite a while since the last time John saw Greg Lestrade. And he hadn't paid much attention to the DI the other times he saw the man as he and Sophie were dissecting the case and trying to find new clues and leads that he hadn't noticed how thin the man was. He had dropped some weight and there was something about his eyes that told him he was tired, but not just physically.

     He briefly wondered why that was and he even entertained the possibility or asking him about that, but decided against it. That was hardly the time or place, and a conversation like that could not be pleasant.

     "So," Lestrade said, making John blink a couple of times and shove all those inopportune thoughts aside. "What do we have?"

     Despite it all, John couldn't help but notice that Lestrade's voice sounded a somewhat tired. He glanced at both Sophie and Emma and saw that, even though it was right there, the two detectives elected to ignore it. Following their example, John inhaled deeply and ignored it all.

     "We," Emma said as she turned the laser on. With a victorious smile on her lips, she looked at the three people that were gathered in front of her. "Have the location of your shooter," she added after she grabbed an aerosol spray can that was on the table and sprayed it so the red light could be seen more easily.

 

Sophie and John stood on the roof of a building across the street. It was a few doors down 427, but it had five floors and a surprisingly good view of the sitting room where Ronald Adair was shot.

     "This," Sophie said when got closer to the corner of the building. "Is where he took the shot..."

     Looking down, she could see on her left knee, the red dot from the laser that was set on the exact spot where the body was found.

     John stood a couple of steps away from Sophie. Being on the roof top of a building, and seeing her standing so close to the edge made him feel nervous. His heart was beating a bit faster now, he was breathing a bit heavier and he noticed that even his left hand began to shake again — it hadn't in a very long time.

     "Ehm... Det– Detective," he called and his voice faltered. "Could... could you just..."

     But John's voice was just a whisper and with the wind blowing and her focus on the middle window of 427, Sophie didn't listen.

     "You stood... right here," she murmured to herself as she crouched down. Then, she brought her hands up, pretending she was holding a rifle herself. Tilting her head a little to her right, Sophie closed her left eye. "And this... this is what you saw..."

     John closed his eyes as he drew in a deep breath. He soon regretted doing so as some not-so-pleasant memories flashed before his eyes.

_Okay, look up; I'm on the roof top._

_Oh, God._

_I– I... I can't come down, so we– we'll just have to do it like this..._

     John snapped his eyes open and everything was gone. Well, almost everything. The memories had vanished, but the unsettling feeling was still there, like a long, slim, cold finger, brushing the length of his spine, making him shiver. And, of course, Sophie was still there.

     "But why?" she murmured to herself. Lowering her hands and resting her arms on her legs, the brunette detective looked around. "Why would you go through all the trouble? ... _why_?"

     Just as she murmured those questions to herself, something on the ground caught her attention. At first, she thought it was nothing; it looked like dirt, but...

     "Sophie!"

     John's voice calling out her name pulled Sophie from her train of thoughts, and she instantly turned her head to look at him. He was only a step behind her and had this look in his eyes that made her eyebrows furrow a little.

     "Yes?"

     "Could you just... step away from the edge. Please."

     Without even noticing, Sophie had stood and gotten impossibly closer to the edge. One didn't have to be a genius to know why that was affecting John all that much, she was almost pacing on that small path, right in between the safety and stability of the building and the deadly fall to the sidewalk.

     "Oh. I'm sorry," she said as she took a step back and another. "I am really sorry, John. I didn't mean to..."

     John inhaled deeply, and even blinked a couple of times. "It's, uh– it's okay... just... don't..."

     "I won't," she said, trying to sound reassuring, giving the circumstances, but feeling pretty bad for being the one who brought that upon them, upon John.

     Standing by the doctor, Sophie decided it was best if she stayed silent and just waited. However, after a few couple of seconds seeing John's oddly still figure taking in long and paused breaths, it was clear that being up there —and her hardly finest moment near the parapet— had caused quite an impact on the man in front of her.

     "Would you like to..."

     John didn't even wait for the end of that sentence. Looking straight at Sophie, he nodded a couple of times. "Yes. Yes, please."

     "Okay," she said reaching out and placing a hand on John's shoulder. Being as gentle as she could, she escorted him back to the door that would take them to the stairs. "Let's go then..."

—

Moving with the utmost care, he closed the door behind him with a soft click. It wasn't hard, though. Careful was all he had been the last few months. One could even say he had been careful his entire life, if by careful they meant thorough, always noticing the smallest of details, and always remembering them all.

     For instance, even though he hadn't been to that place in a while, he did not forget that, if opened too quickly, the golden-like handle on the front door of the building would hit against the wood and consequentially announce his presence to whoever was home. And he knew for a fact that the foyer door would be unlocked, but he needed to be careful when opening it so that it didn't hit the wall.

     Once he was inside, he did not forget the spots where the old wooden stair would creak and whine beneath one's weight and he had been cautious enough to step as closest to the wall and farther from the center as he could on his way up to the second floor of the building he knew like the back of his hand.

     It was an old construction and he knew that the door of the flat he was about to enter would make this low sound when he opened it due to the lack of oil; that is why he had brought this small bottle with said substance so that his presence there would go unannounced and undetected.

     He remembered everything about that address, but the living room he was standing now — it was nothing like his memories... There were only boxes, on the ground, on the desk in between both windows, on the couch, on the small tea table, even on the armchairs in front of the fireplace. Speaking of armchairs... he couldn't help but stare for a couple of seconds when he noticed there were still two of them.

     Not too many things surprised him, but that was certainly something he wasn't sure he expected to see. But then it was just an armchair, so he quickly brushed the thought away. He was there for a reason, and it would take a while until he found what he was looking for amidst all of those boxes.

     Taking a deep breath, he ran his fingers through his hair and pulled off the wig. He had wanted to take it off for quite a while now and it was very satisfying to finally be able to do so.

     Placing the artificial covering made of real blond hair on the arm of the grey armchair, he combed his hair —his real, dark and curly hair— with his fingers.

     "Now," he spoke to himself as he took off the leather jacket. There was no need to keep wearing that inside. "Where do I begin?"

     He looked at his living room once more and decided to start with the boxes on the table. He only hoped that his laptop was still there, along with his microscope and this particular book.

     When he opened the first box and found an assortment of items wrapped up. He took one in his hands and tore off the paper — a Royal Army Medical Corps coffee mug.

     He sighed.

     "Well, this might be a while," he mused as he pushed the still untouched boxes to the side and placed the mug on the table.

     But, before resuming his search, he spared a glance at the porcelain mug again, and a couple of thoughts crossed his mind. _Did he forget about those things? Or did he willingly leave it there, along with everything else?_

     Despite his rational and detached mind, he didn't come up with an answer. Perhaps because he didn't have all the data and he never guessed, but most likely because didn't know if he wanted to know, although he would never admit to such thing.

—

Once they were back to the street, Sophie headed to 427 again.

     Emma had already disassembled the tripod with the laser and she and Lestrade were waiting for her on the sidewalk, near the police car.

     "So?" The ginger asked when the brunette detective approached them.

     "Judging by the height of the buildings and the angle of adjustment, I'd estimate the distance between the shooter and the victim of something around two hundred meters, perhaps three," Sophie said indicating the building on the corner of the block opposite from where they were standing.

     "Skilled shooter then," Lestrade said, although it sounded more like he was just thinking out loud. Either way, he had voiced it. And Sophie didn't quite agree.

     "No," she replied, shaking her head. Both Lestrade and Emma looked at her, eyebrows furrowed and the same expression of disbelief plastered on their face — they clearly did not believe she had just said that. "I would not describe the man who took the shot on top of that building as a _skilled shooter_... I mean, Ronald Adair died at some point between 10 p.m. and 11:20 p.m., which means it was dark; on top of that, the weather last night was far from nice. It was drizzling and there was wind so the conditions for a long range shooting were far from perfect, and still, the man behind the gun put a bullet into Adair's head using a modified gun. Bad conditions, modified weapon. I say we are looking for one of the best shots in Great Britain, perhaps in the whole world."

     Lestrade brought a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. "I don't know if this makes me happy or of it makes me want to weep... Should be easy to find someone this good, shouldn't it?"

     "One can always hope," said Sophie, but her words weren't half as cheerful as her blank expression.

     "But he used a hollow-point bullet and a modified gun, didn't he?" Emma questioned and both Sophie and Lestrade nodded in confirmation. "So, Firearms Act 1968, Section 5. It is illegal to possess, purchase, acquire, manufacture, sell or transfer a weapon like that and expanding ammo without the authority of the Defence Council..."

     "Yeah," Sophie said with a nod. "But it is also illegal to commit murder and it didn't stop our killer. Besides, Section 5 of the Firearms Act 1968 applies throughout the whole of the United Kingdom except for Northern Ireland, which leaves us with, not only one, but two holes."

     "Maybe they already heard of such thing?" Emma suggested, but the look in Sophie's face didn't change as she heard her suggestion, and it told the ginger that that should be one hell of a maybe. "I'm just trying to help..."

     "Well, it's worth a shot," said Lestrade. He hadn't said much until now, but he seemed to have his mind made for he was already taking his phone and making a call. "I'll have someone checking it..."

     "Call me if you find anything, yes?" Sophie asked. "I have a couple of things to do..."

      She had already turned her back to Lestrade and Emma when the DI answered with a simple "all right". With long but unhurried steps, Sophie walked back to her vehicle, where John said he would wait for her. And he did wait for her there; she could see him on the passenger seat of her dark Freelander 2.

     Seeing him just sitting there, all alone and looking down made Sophie feel bad. Even though she got to properly meet the man this morning, she couldn't help but like him. He was friendly, amiable, a nice company and he didn't behave like an idiot around her... And she wasn't feeling bad just because of the roof top fiasco. No. There was something else making her feel uncomfortable.

     Reaching into the right pocket of her coat, Sophie took out a little thin booklet with a flexible burgundy cover. And what an interest story it told her when she opened it.

     The photograph on the document instantly caught her eyes. Blond man, grey eyes, very symmetric and rather exquisite features, surely it was the man who had bumped into her a few moments ago, when she had gotten to Park Lane, but Sophie knew better...

     After a few years working with the Secret Service, Sophie Hunter had acquired some skills and refined some abilities.

     From personal experience, she knew that, with a little bit of practise, anyone could fake an accent and change their voice so they could sound like a different person when speaking. It wasn't something too hard to do, it only required a little bit of effort... Just like it required a little bit of effort to learn how to look past the appearances, for they could be easily misleading.

     Anyone willing to bleach and dye their hair could have golden locks, or, with a little more money, one could easily buy a wig. Contact lenses could change the colour of anyone's eyes as long as they weren't allergic to it. Different shape of nose or mouth? Makeup and some silicone moulds could do the trick. However, unless someone wore a full "Mission: Impossible" mask or went under plastic surgery, little could be done about some other things, such as bone structure. And Mr. Sigerson, the owner of the passport Sophie had in her hands right now had a rather interesting bone structure...

     A brief and small smile made its way to Sophie's lips as she stared at the document. "Hans Sigerson... So obvious and so very clever. Neat."

     But that ghost of a smile disappeared in a heartbeat and she closed the document and tucked it back in her pocket. There was nothing remotely amusing about that situation, not a single thing. If anything, she feared that it would become something dramatic — and she was not looking forward to that. She knew it was wishful thinking, but as she tucked the Norwegian passport back in her pocket, Sophie wondered if there was a way for her to avoid all of that. There wasn't. Although...

     Looking at her vehicle, Sophie noticed John was still there, patiently waiting for her, his attention still not on her—he was on the phone.

     She was only a couple of steps away from her car when she took her own phone and quickly typed a text.

 

"No, Harry, I didn't mean t– I know and I'm sorry. I really am sorry..."

     Pinching the bridge of his nose, John sighed. He didn't know why exactly he had thought it would be a good idea to call his sister at that precise moment. But then, he kind of needed to get his mind off of some things and she did ask him to call her... only now he had to hear her complain about the lunch he had missed amongst other things.

     "I am fine; I swear I am fine... I'm just got caught up... With something. Contrary to what people say, I do have a life... kind of."

     He briefly wondered why people couldn't just mind their own business sometimes, and why on Earth Harry was still behaving like that. All concerned and worried. They were hardly the role model for sibling friendship.

     John was just trying to think of a way to end that strange phone call when the driver's door was open.

     His eyes met Sophie's and the brunette only raised her eyebrows and gingerly entered the car, closing the door once she was seated. She offered him a small smile, almost apologetically, but John did not mind. In fact, he had to remind himself a couple of times not to beam for it would seem odd, even though deep down –or maybe not so deep after all– John Watson was very, very grateful for Sophie's timing. Almost perfect.

     "Sorry, Harry, but I gotta go," he hurried to say, causing Sophie to glance at him with this look of guilt and John quickly shook his head negatively, hoping she would understand he wasn't upset at her or anything. "Tell Linda I am truly sorry ... Yes, let's reschedule ... No, I won't miss it again ... Look, I really gotta go ... No, I'm not at the hospital ... I'm, uh– I'm in the middle of something. We'll talk later, bye."

     John let out a contented sigh as soon as he disconnected the phone call. "Sorry about that," he told Sophie after placing his phone back into the pocket of his jacket.

     "Did I interrupt something?"

     Sophie's question came out slowly and her tone was incredibly careful, which caused John to arch his eyebrows more than just a little.

     "No! No, no..." he said, but maybe it was too quickly and did not come out too honest if the dubious look Sophie was addressing him was anything to go by. "Well, maybe you did, but uh– you really don't need to worry about that. In fact, I should probably thank you."

     It was Sophie's turn to be surprised. "Oh..."

     John nodded. "Yeah..."

     "And would you like to...?"

     "No."

     "Okay."

     The next few seconds were a little awkward. Sophie just sat there with her hands on her lap, fingers tapping on her thighs and eyes looking straight ahead but not really seeing anything while John was doing just the same.

     John counted his breaths and he decided he was being really stupid when he reached seven.

     Blinking a couple of times, he glanced at Sophie out of the corner of his eye. At some point while he was counting, she had gotten hold of a tablet that John simply had no idea where it had been before and was now browsing through some files. Some people's files for John saw the photograph of a dark haired man in his mid-thirties before Sophie changed the page... and he recognised it.

     "These are the faces behind the names we searched earlier today," Sophie said, making John blink and look at her; in his eyes, a mixture of confusion and surprise.

     "How did you...?"

     Raising her eyes and facing John, Sophie answered his unfinished question with a simple: "You were staring... and sort of– squinting."

     "Oh... okay. And, what are you doing, may I ask?"

     "We are looking for a sniper, right?" Sophie asked, and John nodded in response.

     "A bloody good sniper, yes," he commented.

     One of Sophie's eyebrows went up when she heard that. "Exactly," she agreed slightly surprised, though she should've seen this coming — the man had served in the Army. "So, I decided to search them all again, although this time, I'd look for military background."

     "And...?"

     "Five hits, all ex-military. Francis Caldwell, Royal Navy. John Hardy, Royal Marine. Sebastian Moran, British Army. Parker Murray, British Army. Paul Winston, retired Air Commodore, Royal Air Force. All of them were trained to use high-precision rifles."

     John recognised all five men, although some looked a bit different from the photos he had seen. Paul Winston most of all. The photo from his military records was at least twenty years older than the other one.

     "Uh..."

     Sophie was once again scrutinizing the files when she heard John speak. He didn't exactly speak in a way that he didn't utter any coherent sentence, or a simple articulated word for that matter, but John sounded hesitant, curious, doubtful and, most of all, he had sounded unsure, as if he didn't know if he should or should not say anything, or ask anything and the combination of those things made Sophie set the slim device on her lap and turn her head so she was facing him again.

     "John?"

     Blinking a couple of times, John tried to use those brief few seconds to think about his next words. "Do you think one of these men... is the murderer?"

     When John's eyes met Sophie's, she noticed they were tinged with something else other than the oceanic blue of his orbs — there was hesitancy in his look, and it made Sophie wonder why that was. Was it because he had not known how to ask that question or was there another reason? But she quickly brushed those doubts aside; she had enough questions to which she needed to find answers and she trusted that, if there was anything bothering John, he would say something.

     "Yes," she said, solemnly yet kindly. "Why? You do not?"

     "No, it's just... Looking at these files, these men, they had such— brilliant careers."

     The sorrow was too evident in John's speech and in his overall appearance also that it was impossible for Sophie to miss it. Didn't take more than a couple of seconds for her to understand why.

     "Not everyone is evil, John. Not everyone would use their knowledge and skills to commit such atrocious crimes."

     Their eyes met and, for a few seconds, neither one said a word, they simply sat there and held each other's gaze. There were things that didn't need to be said, such as how John's opinion regarding everything slightly related to the Queen and country were valued very highly. And he had been on the military service so his reaction was something that Sophie would take as natural.

     "Yeah, I know that," John said after a handful of seconds in silence. However, he still didn't look at Sophie and kept his eyes fixed on the tablet screen. "It's just..."

     Shifting on his seat, John took a deep breath. Seeing those photos and hearing about their military background made John think about his days as a soldier. Well, he was an Army Doctor, but like he had told Sherlock once, he had killed people before...

     "You know, I've heard a theory once," Sophie said, pulling John from his thoughts and right back into reality. "A quite interesting one, if you ask me. It said that the individual represents in his development the whole procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good or evil stands for some strong influence which came into the line of his pedigree… I think that was it."

     John sat back while he processed everything she had just said. It was a rather fanciful theory the one she had just told him and, for a moment, he wondered whose theory that was, or why was she telling him that. Then, it occurred to him.

     "Are you suggesting that... whoever did this may have had some sort of dysfunctional family or his– _ancestors_ could have done something like this?"

     Sophie couldn't help but smirk at John's remark. He was not just a pair of fresh eyes and an unprejudiced mind. No. John Watson was also quite bright and his brain worked rather fast.

     Looking at Sophie and how she seemed to be a bit pleased judging by the way she was smiling, John expected to hear something along the lines of a 'yes', but instead, all she said was "Well."

     " _Well_?"

     "Like I said, it is a theory I've heard..."

     "Yeah, a very fanciful one if I may."

     Yet again, Sophie smiled. "You may. I thought so, too."

     John nodded and a small smile played with the corners of his lips for a second or two before he asked the one question he'd been eager to ask for a while now. "So... What's next?"

     "Well, Conduit Street is not far," Sophie said tapping on the screen of her device before handing it over to John. "I'm calling Lestrade then I'll talk to some suspects. If you want out, it is the time to say."

     John's eyes were still fixed on the screen and he was looking at the photograph of Colonel Sebastian Moran when he heard Sophie's words, and he was fairly quick to reply with a very firm "no, I'm in".

—

Somewhere in the St. James's district of the City of Westminster, a phone beeped in a silent room and a man in a suit put the newspaper he'd been reading aside so he could see his unread message. It was a one sentence text, four words, all caps:

**WE NEED TO TALK**

     There were a few reasons as to why Sophie would contact him, but a text like that and at that moment, it meant one thing.

     Sitting back on his armchair, Mycroft Holmes let out a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Do please let me know what you think? Not hearing from you is the worst.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Ten

 

He had just gotten out of the shower, hair still dripping when the doorbell rang.

     For a couple of seconds, the dark haired man stood in front of the mirror, face void of emotions. He wasn't waiting for anyone, except maybe the visit of a certain brunette detective who worked for the New Scotland Yard.

     His blank expression was suddenly replaced by one of mild amusement as a half smirk made its way to his lips. _At last,_ he thought to himself, for he had nearly given up hope of seeing her today...

     Without hurry, he donned the grey bathrobe that was neatly folded on the marble of his sink and loosely tied the fabric belt around his waist, leaving the front more than just slightly open. Then, grabbing the towel he had been used to dry himself, he put it around his neck and sauntered off the bathroom.

–

Sophie shifted her weight from one leg to the other and rang the doorbell once again.

     It's been only a minute, probably less, ever since she and John had gotten to No. 116 of Conduit Street, but Sophie was a bit impatient. And it was very hard for John to miss it.

     "Maybe no one's home," he suggested softly when he noticed Sophie looking around.

     It took a few seconds for the DI to realise that John had talked to her. In all honesty, she had barely heard what he had said so, once she turned her head to face him, Sophie blurted out an automatic "What?"

     "I've noticed you're a bit... agitated," John said rather softly. "And I get why. I mean, the pressure on you because of this case must be huge and..."

     Sophie stood there and heard what John had to say, even though he had gotten everything wrong. Little did the kind Doctor know that the reason why she was _a little agitated_ had very little to do with the fact that they were knocking on the door of a potential suspect, and a lot to do with the text he didn't see her sending when they were at Park Lane and the passport she acquired—through unconventional ways—from the alleged Norwegian... But she wasn't about to tell him that. God, no. It wasn't her secret to tell.

     Sophie blinked a couple of times and checked her watch when John said, "It is almost four o'clock... Maybe they went out for tea, or—"

     But John never finished what he was saying because the door they've been standing in front of for a few moments now was suddenly open.

     "Hello."

     It took both Sophie and John a few seconds to reply to the man by the door.

     John recognised him from the photographs he had seen, even though he was not wearing the uniform. If he was to be very honest, John had serious doubts he was wearing anything but the grey bathrobe. And he didn't realise he had been slightly frowning until Sophie cleared her throat beside him.

     "Mr. Moran?" She asked, even though she already knew it was him.

     Moran's eyebrows furrowed softly and he looked away from Sophie and glanced at John for the first time.

     "Yes..." It was supposed to be an affirmation, though the way he said, it sounded almost like a question, in John's opinion. And he didn't really know what to think about that but, apparently, Sophie didn't mind—either that or she was used to it—for she simply opened a small smile.

     "Hi, I'm Detective Inspector Sophie Hunter and this is an associate of mine, Doctor Watson... We would like to speak with you, if you have a moment."

     John had to fight pretty damn hard not to frown at the DI. _We would like to speak with you_ if _you have a moment?_ Did he get that right?

     "Sure, only... May I see some identification first?" Moran asked. "Sorry, it's just–"

     John saw it when Sophie shook her head, which made Sebastian Moran stop talking mid-sentence. "No need to apologise or anything," she said as she reached for something in the inside pocket of her coat. John was waiting to see her ID badge, the same she had shown him when she knocked on his door earlier today, but instead, she pulled an access badge.

     "I'm afraid I have lost my ID badge, but here it is," she told the man in the bathrobe as she showed the rectangle piece of plastic.

     Even though the access card was from the Scotland Yard and had her photo along with her name, once more John had to work hard not to show any signs of confusion. Had she lost her badge? Where? And when did she lose it? She didn't sound one bit surprised so she clearly didn't just find out. The thing was: he had been with her practically the entire time... That didn't make much sense. But again, John seemed to be the only one who was concerned about that because, as soon as he saw the access card, Sebastian Moran opened a small smile.

     "Well, come in then," he said, taking a step to the side and opening the door so that they could walk into his house.

     It was a rather fine place, John thought as he and Sophie got through the foyer before stepping into the living room of Mr. Moran's house.

     Without a doubt, the place was nothing like what John was used to, or perhaps, what he was waiting... Sebastian Moran seemed to be a man of a very refined taste, so to speak. The spacious living room looked like something one would see in the pages of a magazine.

     Unlike John's flat, everything that was in that room, the furniture and the décor items seemed to be very expensive, and they also seemed to be carefully chosen so they would balance the ambient.

     Two dark brown sofas and an armchair of same colour were placed in front of a big flat screen with a small coffee table in the middle, a black chaise longue with golden details sat close to a fireplace with a carved mantelpiece made out of something that seemed to be marble, a regency style chandelier, two hunting rifles on the wall... every single thing seemed to belong there and they gave the room an oddly pleasant feeling of old and new intertwined with perfect and rather gallant harmony. That was the best way John could describe, since decoration was something he knew very little about.

     "If you could wait a moment," said Moran, pulling John from his thoughts. "While change into some more appropriate clothes..."

     "Not a problem," Sophie replied, turning to face him with a small smile.

     John simply watched as the tall dark haired man smiled back at her before excusing himself out of the room. He was still staring at the place where he'd seen Moran when the sound of soft steps made him look around.

     Sophie was slowly walking the length of the room, eyes travelling around in a way that told John she was assessing everything.

     "Quite impressive, huh?" John asked casually while looking around as well. The chandelier caught his eyes and he found himself wondering who had something like that in their living room these days...

     Clasping her hands behind her, Sophie took a few more steps, approaching the two guns that were displayed on the wall. She stopped to admire them for a couple of seconds as she whispered a quiet but audible, "Quite impressive _indeed_..."

     John's eyes shifted from the chandelier to the coffee table. There was a newspaper neatly folded on it with a book sitting on top of it right next to an ashtray that seemed to be made out of crystal.

     "He knows," John commented as he pushed the book aside so he'd have a better and unobstructed view of the newspaper. "About Adair's death... He's read about it."

     Sophie's response to John's words was a simple "yeah" as she turned her back to the guns. In all honesty, she wasn't surprised—not in the slightest. She hadn't have time to sit and watch telly or to open a newspaper and read it, but she knew it should be the one of the main subjects people would be talking about... She only wished they could put an end to it, sooner rather than later.

     Speaking of which, Sophie reached for her phone.

     Before she and John went knocking on Mr. Moran's door, Sophie had called her fellow Detective Inspector and told him what she had sorted out with John about the list of names they'd taken from the clubs and how she narrowed it down to only members with Military background that would fit their profile of a sharp shooter. She had also told him that she and John were going to speak with ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran and he had said he'd try to knock on some doors himself once he had dealt with the press—he was to have a press conference of some sort, to which Sophie bid him good luck while feeling immensely grateful for she wasn't the one having to do it.

     She let out a slightly frustrated sigh before pocketing her phone once again. There were no messages and no missed calls, which meant no news from anyone.

     Even though her reaction had been minor, John noticed it. He could hardly miss it since she happened to sigh and knit her eyebrows together for half a second at the exact same time John turned around, looking for her.

     "What is it?" He asked curiously. "Something wrong?"

     Sophie looked up to find John's eyes fixed on her. "No. Nothing's wrong... Just checking something."

     "Lestrade?"

     "Yeah," she said simply, trying to keep her act as casual as it could be. "Nothing on that end yet."

     John took a moment to weigh her words before nodding. It sounded perfectly reasonable that she was waiting to hear from Lestrade... although, seeing her with her phone and the placing it back into her coat made him frown.

     "When Moran asked to see your credentials," John said as he walked around the coffee table so he'd meet with Sophie, who was still pacing through the room. "You said you lost your ID badge..."

     "Yes?" She asked absently as she stopped in front of one of the two built-in bookcases that sat on both sides of the fireplace.

     "How did you lose it?"

     Blinking a couple of times, Sophie turned around so she was face to face with John. He was curious; she could see that much in his blue eyes. But there was something else there. John was intrigued more than just curious, and something told her that he had thought about that more than just once—and he had not been able to come up with an answer. Ergo, the query.

     "I'm not entirely sure," she replied in a rather casual manner after a few seconds.

     "But you showed it to me," John said as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "This morning, when you came to my flat... and we have been together ever since."

     "I suppose I may have left it in my office or perhaps in my flat..."

     John knit his eyebrows together as he considered what Sophie had said. Was it possible? Yes, it was. But for some reason, he found that rather... odd. How could she have left her badge? It should be part of her uniform, should it not? I mean, surely she carried it with her every time she was on duty, every day... But, it could have fallen from her pocket, John though after a moment. Maybe the seams came undone and it fell.

     Deciding it was hardly something impossible to happen—and definitely something he should not be meddling and questioning Sophie about—, John gave up on the subject, though it didn't get out of his mind.

–

Upstairs, in his bedroom, Sebastian Moran stood in front of a full length mirror.

     He was dressed in a nice pair of dark trousers of a famous Italian brand and had a pair of black shiny Salvatore Ferragamo's lace up shoes on as he finished buttoning a dark blue dress shirt.

     Tilting his chin up a bit, he studied his appearance. There were many adjectives that could be applied to describe the man that was Sebastian Moran, though some like _modest_ or _simple_ were definitely out of that list. He had learned long ago that he did not carry traits like those in his DNA. He simply didn't. Many considered him to be a vain man, but, in Moran's opinion, that was a word of many interpretations, and some of them certainly did not fit into anything that had to do with him. At all.

     There were only the buttons of the cuffs left to be done when Sebastian took a step back and turned on his heels.

     Standing nearly in the middle of his room, the dark haired man's eyes travelled the familiar place before landing upon the laptop that was sitting in his bed, beside a black jacket that went with the pair of trousers he was already wearing. The laptop was open and the bright screen was showing a photograph of the very woman that had just knocked on his door. A photograph he had taken when he had first seen her down at Park Lane.

     "Detective Inspector Sophie Hunter..." A devilish smirk made its way to his lips as he adjusted his long sleeves.

     He had never heard of Sophie Hunter before, but now that he did, he wondered how exactly a woman that young became a Detective Inspector. She ought to be very good at what she did, or she knew all the right people, he thought to himself as he reached out for the jacket. But, before taking it, he decided against it. Leaving the single breasted, two-button Versace jacket neatly lay on his bed without a single wrinkle, he crossed the bedroom, heading towards the door.

–

"Sorry for making you wait too long," said Sebastian Moran as he stepped into the room he had left Sophie and John.

     The brunette Detective Inspector had been casually inspecting some titles that Moran had in his bookcases, but when she heard the man's voice, she straightened her back and turned her attention back to her host; so did John, and quite frankly, both of them were slightly surprised when their eyes landed on the man. Only slightly, for they had seen from his place that Sebastian Moran was man with a sophisticated taste. It was only logical that his wardrobe would follow that tendency.

     "It is fine," Sophie replied incredibly casually, with a smile on her face.

     John did nothing but watch as a smug little smirk tugged at the corners of Moran's lips. It wasn't a hard thing to do, to _just watch_ , for it seemed as if Moran did not have eyes for John... He briefly recalled the meeting with the president of the Bagatelle club, what was his name? Charles Smith. Roughly speaking, both men—Smith _and_ Moran—had the same look, except there was something more... raw in the way Charles Smith looked at Sophie, more passionate maybe, while Sebastian Moran seemed to be more composed. Too composed perhaps, John thought as he looked a bit more carefully at the former Colonel. It was as if there was something furtive about that man, something that John couldn't quite put his finger on, something _latent_.

     As soon as the thought crossed his mind, John Watson frowned. Latent? That was an interesting choice of words. They were following some leads on the case, all right, and it led them to that man, however...

     For a moment, John thought of his late friend and what would Sherlock say if he should share his thoughts with the consulting detective. Perhaps he would find it intriguing as well; I mean he was the most observant human being with such sharp mind... Perhaps he would agree with John, but most likely, he'd want to know why. Why did John think that? Why _latent_?

     But then, as he stood there, thinking and thinking, John discovered something. It was not related to the case or anything remotely tied to it, but almost just as satisfying. Right there, John found out that thinking about Sherlock was, somehow, becoming more bearable.

     "My apologies," Sebastian said, pulling John from his thoughts, and he noticed that the man sounded just as casual as Sophie had been just moments ago. "Can I offer you anything? Some tea, maybe? It should take just a moment..."

     Shaking her head lightly, Sophie politely declined his offer. "Not for me, thank you."

     "I'm good," John replied when Sebastian Moran's eyes landed upon him, across the room.

     He didn't know what he was expecting, but when the corner of Moran's lips turned lightly upwards and his eyes remained soft and passive, John felt slightly disappointed. However, he began to pay more attention to the impeccably dressed and ridiculously good looking man.

     "Okay then," Sebastian said as he shifted his glance to Sophie again. "So... I assume you're here because of what happened to Ronald Adair." With a fluid movement, he indicated the sofa. "Am I right?"

     "Quite right," she admitted while sitting down. Moran had sat on the armchair, directly across from her.

     "I read it on the newspapers," the dark haired man told her. His eyes drifted to paper that sat on the coffee table that sit between them. "So tragic..."

     John had crossed the space and occupied a seat right next to Sophie, and when he heard those words, he shifted his gaze from the coffee table and his eyes landed Sebastian's face. It seemed as if the man was slightly affected by the mention of Mr. Adair's death.

     _Was that genuine?_ The question came so sudden that John could hardly keep himself from frowning deeply. But then, he remembered something that Charles Smith had said, _"Mr. Moran and Mr. Adair used to play cards together quite often"_. Maybe it was possible that his reaction was genuine. _But..._

     However, when John spared a glance towards Sophie, he didn't see anything in her features that would suggest doubts or anything that would slightly resemble doubt, nothing at all. In fact, if John was to be very honest, he'd say she seemed to be very at ease, almost like she was having some casual conversation with a friend or some acquaintance of hers, which was completely strange given the circumstances.

     If John didn't furrow his eyebrows when he found himself questioning how real Sebastian's response to Adair's death had been, he did so now as he saw Sophie giving Sebastian a short, and somewhat understanding, nod.

     "It is... And the reason we're here, Mr. Moran—"

     "Please," he interrupted. Giving her what John guessed to be his most sparkling smile, he said, "Sebastian."

     Sophie smiled back, but what surprised John the most was to acknowledge the fact that the smile seemed to reach her eyes. _It reached_. _Her eyes_. They have known each other since this morning but up until now, regardless of everything they've been through, John had never been more astonished by her behaviour than he was right now.

     "Very well... The reason we are here, Sebastian, is because we learnt that you and Mr. Adair were something close to friends."

     Sebastian Moran leaned slightly forward and rested his elbows on his knees, interlinking his fingers. Bowing his head slightly, he stared at his shoes for a couple of seconds before speaking. "Something close, yes... Yes, I suppose you can say that." Looking up, his blue eyes met Sophie's dark ones. He didn't spare one quick glance at John. "You see, Ronald and I, we— we played cards together, have brunch some days... We weren't exactly too familiar, but we got along."

     "I see... And did Mr. Adair ever mention any problems he might have had? Any– resentments, disaffections, something of sorts?"

     John shifted slightly in his seat and waited for Sebastian's answer. It didn't come immediately, though. No. The man in the dark blue dress shirt took his time and it looked as if he was thinking, trying to remember something... After a few seconds, he shook his head.

     "Uh, no... I don't think so. Ronald was a man of quiet habits. He wasn't very keen on talking about his life, and that is saying something for a man of his age."

     "I see. But did you ever notice anything unusual with Mr. Adair? Maybe his behaviour lately...?"

     "I'm afraid not, but then, all of my exes complained that I didn't pay enough attention." Sebastian chuckled, and when the brunette detective joined him, John was at a loss. What was she doing? That man was a suspect, for God's sake!

     "Right," Sophie said pushing her hair behind her ear. "Just one last thing, can you account for your whereabouts last night, between ten and midnight? I have to ask." She sounded almost apologetic when she said those last four words.

     "Sure. Last night I was in Dublin. Spend the day there actually, only returned this morning."

     "Can anyone confirm this?"

     "Parker Murray and Roger Blake. We went fishing."

     Both Sophie and John arched an eyebrow at that last statement. "Fishing?" she asked as she finished writing down the two names he had given.

     Amongst of the list of things that both, John and Sophie, could think for a man like Sebastian Moran to have as a hobby, fishing was certainly not the number one. Or the number one hundred for that matter—hunting was certainly most likely. But the man seemed to be quite pleased with their reaction for he smiled a smug little smirk.

     "Fishing, yes," he said. His tone was so casual, soft, so light that even John found himself looking rather curiously at the man. "Do you not like it? It is incredibly relaxing."

     "If you say so," she replied simply as she stood. "Well, thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Mo— Sebastian." She corrected when the man stood from his seat and addressed her a look that made John close his eyes so he wouldn't roll it. "It was very helpful."

     _Helpful?_ John had to fight the urge to pull Sophie aside and ask her if she had gone completely mad. That wasn't helpful! What did they know, really? That he liked fishing and had allegedly gone fishing with friends the day before? That wasn't even a solid alibi! And didn't Moran say Parker Murray? Wasn't that one of the suspects?

     There were so many things that John failed to understand about that "visit" but he didn't think challenging the Detective Inspector there, right in the middle of Moran's living room was the wisest thing to do. And he wanted to—boy, did he want to do just that—but his better judgment told him not to, even when he saw the other man showing a satisfied smile.

     "It has been my pleasure," the former Colonel said, politely as ever.

     If there was one thing that John had noticed about Sebastian—aside the fact that he was shamelessly flirtatious, and Sophie appeared to be falling for that despite her being a detective _and_ being on duty—was that the man was always polite. Always. And, for some reason, it reminded him of something he had read once that said: _'Politeness is organized indifference'_. Now John didn't think Sebastian was indifferent, but maybe he wanted to keep something for himself, maybe he wanted to show the image of someone who is not too involved—if that made any sense—hence the courteousness.

     "Anything to help," Moran added casually as he stood also. "I hope you find whoever did this, Detective Inspector... sooner rather than later."

     "Oh, I do hope too," she said honestly.

     "And, perhaps then, it wouldn't be too— awkward for me to invite you for a coffee."

     John, who had also left the couch and was following the improbable duo as they all made their way out of the living room, towards the front door, stopped dead on his tracks as he heard that. Was that really happening? I mean, really? They had come to this house because Sebastian Moran was a suspect on the murder or Ronald Adair and— did the man just ask Sophie out? Oh yes, he did. _Detective Inspector_ Sophie Hunter, also known as the woman who, moments ago, was questioning him about his whereabouts and such, and he asked her out. Very much so. Who does that?!

     "This is unbelievable," John mumbled quietly to himself as he shook his head and resumed his walk again. He had seen some really astonishing things in his life, but _that_?! Oh, that was something else...

     But, at least then Sophie started to behave like the DI she was and did not agree with that. Well, not just yet... Her response to his (unbelievable) invitation of sorts was a diplomatic "perhaps then", which didn't keep Sebastian from asking them to wait a moment and excusing himself, leaving both John and Sophie on the foyer as he went back into his living room, only to return a handful of second later with a folded piece of paper.

     To this day, John recalled been through some pretty uncomfortable situations, especially when he worked with Sherlock Holmes, and there had been quite a few of those since Sherlock's lack of social skills and his tendency to an insensitive nature had granted John more than just a handful of awkward moments that he didn't honestly know if he rather forget or not. He just never thought he'd experience such thing again, so soon and with Sophie...

     "My number," Moran said charmingly as he handed the folded paper to Sophie. "If you need to ask me anything else..."

     It took her a couple of seconds as she inspected the paper and the man's face, but ultimately, Sophie took it from his hands and held it between them as she looked into his bright blue eyes.

     "Have a nice day," she said with a small smile.

     "You too." Sebastian Moran had the door unlocked and was holding it open for Sophie (and John). "Have a nice day... Doctor Watson."

     John was positively sure that he only acknowledged him because he had passed right in front of him. Addressing the man a simple nod and murmuring a simple 'yeah, you too', John turned his back on the two of them, walked down the few steps and waited for Sophie on the sidewalk, a couple of steps away from the front door of No. 116.

–

Sophie joined John shortly.

     Taking a moment to end the act she had put on properly, she offered Moran her most dashing smile before thanking him once again, then, with all of her grace, the brunette turned on her heels and slowly walked down the steps. It was only a couple of seconds after she reached the pavement of the sidewalk that Sophie heard the soft click of No. 116's door being closed.

     As she stood there, Sophie felt a hint of amusement mixed with something else. It had been much better than she had expected it to be, by a long shot.

     She was in such an ecstatic mood that not even John's stare could make her stop beaming.

     "Come on," she said quite cheerfully, looking right at the serious looking man as she resumed her walking and passed by him.

     John was still trying to decipher the reason why the detective seemed to be so incredibly delighted and it took him a while to follow her. Taking a couple of long strides, he fell into step beside Sophie. "Okay, what was that?"

     "What was what?" She asked casually.

     " _That_ ," John cried. "What was that? What happened there?"

     "What do you mean, what happened there?" Sophie said as she stopped beside her car, but didn't unlock the doors. "You were there."

     "Well, I was there, but that doesn't mean I understood any of it."

     "What you did not understand?"

     "Oh, lots of things... First of all, how was that helpful? He didn't say anything! And, really, with all due respect, what was that thing between you two?"

     Sophie took a moment to study John. He not only sounded, but he also seemed pretty rattled, so she decided to put him out of his misery once and for all.

     "He did tell us some things, John," she said gently. "Some pretty interesting things, might I add. And as for _that thing between us two_ , sometimes, being blunt and just pour questions upon a suspect is about just as productive as punching a wall. You may let off steam or whatever, but you won't get anything out of it, except maybe more frustration because of the injuries you're likely to get... One thing I learned while working with the law enforcement is that you must have different tactics. You saw Moran. You saw how he answered the door; you saw his house, his wardrobe, what did that tells you?"

     John did not have to think about that question. "That he is a vain and flirtatious posh," he answered promptly.

     "Exactly," she said. "He knows he's attractive and he uses it. So, I used it as well, and when I joined him in his game, I learned things that I wouldn't have otherwise."

     That did make some sense, John thought. Except he didn't know what was she talking about. "And what are those things?"

     Sophie let out a soft chuckle, and John understood that as her being surprised he hadn't figured it out himself. Part of John was waiting to hear something along the lines of _'you see but you do not observe'_ , but Sophie simply looked at him and asked in a gentle tone, "Remember what Moran said about his exes?"

     "He said they all complained that he didn't pay much attention."

     "And does his place suggest someone who doesn't pay much attention?"

     Now that she had mentioned, John didn't think so; his place was so tidy, everything seemed to match and it was all very neatly organised.

     "Not really, no."

     "And I know you noticed how he spoke," said Sophie, reaching for the car keys. "I saw how you kept studying him. His voice was measured and even his words sounded measured."

     "That's... quite brilliant," John admitted. "So, he could be the sniper, or at least he could be covering for someone."

     Now that was a surprise. "Covering?"

     "Yes. I mean, he wasn't very honest, and he mentioned Parker Murray, a friend and also a name on the list... He could be covering for him. Giving an alibi, maybe."

     The corners of Sophie's lips turned upwards and John could see a sparkle in her eyes.

     "I'm impressed, John," she said quite cheerfully. "I'm very impressed. That's great reasoning."

     She sounded and seemed genuinely impressed and John couldn't help feeling a bit pleased with himself. Well, actually, he felt a lot pleased, but he wasn't about to boast.

     "Murray is a name on the list and one that's worth checking," she said as she rounded the car so she could get to the driver's side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if this is interesting and I'm considering stop updating this here, so, if you read, please comment?  
> Thank you.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> This story has not been Beta read and because English isn't my first language, I apologise in advance for any mistakes you might find.

Chapter Eleven

 

Humming to herself, the old woman placed the two plastic bags she'd been carrying on the ground so she could retrieve the keys that were in her pocket and unlock the front door.

     Stepping inside her place, Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind her before crossing the foyer and heading towards her own flat. She had spent the best part of her day out, taking the morning to run some errands, meeting with her sister for lunch and then gone shopping... In all honesty, Martha Hudson was kind of looking forward to the silence and comfort that was her own place. However, as she passed by the stairs, a muffled noise coming from the floor above made her stop and her expression changed into one of confusion as she frowned.

     She wasn't renting the upstairs flat for anyone and it had been like that for quite a while now. Well, technically she was renting it for she was receiving the paycheck monthly from Mycroft Holmes, but she figured it was only because, being Sherlock's brother, the older Holmes had decided to keep his brother's belongings as they were until he figured out what to do with it. But Mycroft never came to Baker Street before. At least not since...

     Another soft thud came from upstairs.

     Twice. Twice she heard a sound and it could only mean one thing.

     Forgetting about her shopping (and also forgetting all about common sense apparently), the old woman with golden hair turned on her heels and began ascending the stairs.

     She didn't know exactly what she expected to find once she got to the floor above, but it didn't keep her from climbing, step after step, until she reached the door. It was closed, but there was someone inside.

     Placing all four shopping bags on the ground, Mrs. Hudson reached out and closed her right hand around the doorknob. Moving ever so carefully, she turned it and the door opened a little.

     She could hear more clearly now. Whoever was in there was going through Sherlock's belongings. Everything she had so carefully put in boxes and that Mycroft had kept untouched. And now... now someone was there. Someone was—

     "Oh, there it is! Finally..."

     Mrs. Hudson was just about to go back downstairs and call the police when she heard it. At first she didn't believe her own ears, but she heard it all right. And most importantly, she recognised the voice. How could she not? For about two years he had made her life rather... interesting.

     All the singular characters that began to show up at 221B Baker Street after he moved in, his weird experiments that more often than not involved human parts, the untidiness of the flat, the holes on her wall, the violin practice at three in the morning... He had not been the best tenant in London—it was far from that, actually—, but Mrs. Hudson liked him. He always treated her gently and with courtesy...

     And he was dead.

     Or at least that's what she thought so. And it was because of that, because Sherlock was supposed to be dead, that Mrs. Hudson forgot all about calling the police, turned around so she was facing the door and pushed it open.

-

Despite her seemingly fragile appearance, there was only about a handful of things that had some grand effect on Martha Hudson.

     People often assumed she was something delicate—probably because of her age, maybe because of her never ending kindness—, but looks could be very deceiving, and she wasn't delicate. At least not in all aspects that the word could imply, that is, after all, Mrs. Hudson was a woman who was once attacked by an American, made hostage by the same character and two friends and had a gun pointed straight to her head.

     However, nothing—not a single thing—could compare to _that_.

     "Oh my God..."

     The old lady had to reach out and seek for the steady support of the walls to keep from falling to the ground because there, right in the middle of the living room, stood the tall, dark-haired man to whom she used to rent that very same flat.

     He didn't seem half as surprised as she was, but something akin to it flickered in his eyes—blue eyes that now had this unusual grey hue.

     Putting down the book he was holding, he crossed the living room with a couple of long strides to get to where his former landlady was struggling to stand still.

     Mrs. Hudson had to blink a couple of times when a pair of warm (and very real) hands closed around her thin arms.

     "Sher– Sherlock." His name was barely a whisper on her thin, trembling lips.

     Despite the look of pure perplexity that was plastered on Mrs. Hudson face, Sherlock Holmes—the man who was supposed to be dead—couldn't keep the small smirk from tugging at the corner of his right lip. He didn't mean to scare the old woman, and he was not reveling in that. Of course not. But he couldn't deny that he was a somewhat glad to see a familiar face, after all, it has been quite a while...

     Sherlock walked the still baffled woman into the living room and took the two boxes that had been sitting on the burgundy armchair.

     "Mrs. Hudson, do please sit," said Sherlock, indicating the place that was once John's after he placed the two boxes that had been occupying the furniture on the ground. "You look as if you're about to pass out."

     Not having it in her to refute the man's remark, the woman simply did as she was bid and sat down.

     Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply and for a fleeting moment, Mrs. Hudson entertained the possibility of being mad. She had never doubted her own mind or anything, but that would be an explanation, would it not? Seeing Sherlock, right there in the middle of the flat he once rented from her... That should be the only explanation, except—

     Opening her eyes once again, she saw him again. She was _not_ going mad. She couldn't be. For he stood, right in front of her, watching her carefully with those strange grey eyes. So lifelike.

     "Sher— How did you... Oh my God, Sherlock, you— you were... and John, he... _How_?!"

     Normally, Mrs. Hudson was a composed and quiet woman, this time, however, she could not help it. The mixture of feelings, emotions that had taken her aback, that was simply too much for her to handle and her often soft tone raised a few notes and she was borderline hysterics.

     It didn't do anything to Sherlock's demeanors, though. He simply stood there, looking at her and, if Mrs. Hudson knew better—and she had every reasons to believe she did know better—she would say he was a somewhat amused.

     "I will have to answer that question later on, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock in his old nonchalant manner, the ghost of a smile playing with his lips, "for there is a matter of greater importance that requires my attention right now."

     She felt this urge to tell him that that was a matter of great importance for her, but the old woman did not act on it. Mrs. Hudson knew Sherlock long enough to know that, if he had his mind onto something—and he had just stated that—, almost everything else that had nothing to do with the matter of his attention was bound to be neglected. Even though he was the primary cause of her current rattled state, it would be of no use to ask him to explain himself—he would not. At least not until said "matter of great importance" was resolved.

     So, trying to quell her need for answers, Mrs. Hudson simply nodded. She was still feeling half-dazzled when the man she had believed to be dead until less than an hour ago, offered her a smile, stood up, and, in a swift movement, turned on his heels and headed towards the flat door and off he went.

     The old woman sat there, immobile, simply staring at the still open door for a few moments. Despite everything, she could still hardly believe Sherlock was alive.

     Taking a deep breath, her slightly shaky hand flew to cover her lips. "Oh, God..."

—

"Yes, sounds good enough to me, just call me if you find anything ... Actually, I don't think I will go back to the station today ... I've got some things to do ... All right, I will wait then."

     Despite of the fact that he'd been sitting silently on the passenger seat and pretending to be checking something on his phone, there was no way John could have not heard the exchange between Sophie and Lestrade. And because he had heard just one side of the conversation, by the time she hung up, he was feeling a somewhat confused.

     At first, John decided not to question Sophie about what was next. He heard it when she said she had things to do, and judged them to be personal matters and, consequentially, none of his concern, but after everything they've been through and after getting this far, John Watson couldn't simply ignore some things he had just heard...

     "So, uh– if you don't mind my asking, what are we gonna do next?"

     Sophie had started the engine of her vehicle, but didn't steer it out of the parking spot. "Well, I was thinking we'd go home."

     John Watson knew he was not a detective, and despite everything, the former Army Doctor knew he was there only to assist Sophie with that case and that case alone; their partnership of sorts wasn't likely to become a pattern. Being puzzled by anything slightly related to the case on the other hand...

     "Home? But there are a few other names of that list we managed to narrow down," John tried to reason with the detective, shifting softly on his seat. "What about Murray?"

     "Murray's address is the closest to the Yard so Lestrade is on his way," she explained. "About the others, there's an alert on all those names so, in case someone tries to leave the country, the Scotland Yard will be informed," _or I'll get the information from other source_ , she thought, but for very obvious reasons, did not say.

     The "oh" that escaped John's lips, albeit soft, was heavy with something that resembled disappointment in Sophie's opinion.

     "You are not particularly happy about it," she observed as she finally pulled out of the parking spot.

     John bit on the insides of his lower lip and knitted his eyebrows together. She was right. He wasn't particularly happy about it.

     "I just... I think I'm a bit frustrated," he admitted.

     "Because I said we were going home."

     It wasn't a question, but John nodded in confirmation.

     "Well... yes."

     Sophie pulled up at the traffic light and took the time to study the man next to her. He was absently checking his phone and she could tell, just by looking at him, that John was truly upset about that and it made her smile. Not many people had that attitude. It was nice in a way.

     "Do you have dinner plans?"

     Sophie's question was both sudden and unexpected and it snapped John out of from whatever thoughts that were going through his head at that moment.

     Blinking a couple of times, John Watson found Sophie's dark eyes fixed on him rather intently. He had heard her all right, but the question still escaped his lips before he knew it. "What?"

     "Dinner plans," Sophie said casually. "I already interfered in whatever lunch plans you had, so I thought I'd ask this time. Do you have any? Dinner plans, I mean."

     "Not really, no... Why do you ask?"

     "Because, according to Mary, I have this very unhealthy and rather terrible habit of taking work home."

     "Oh," murmured John, thought, this time, he didn't sound disappointed.

     It was exactly the opposite Sophie noticed when a sparkle of liveliness made his blue eyes shine a bit brighter. Not many people had that attitude _indeed_.

     "How do you like fish and chips?" She asked softly, shifting her eyes back to the road.

     "I like that very much," John promptly answered, and Sophie could almost feel the change in his mood.

–

"I need to make a quick stop before we get home," Sophie informed John as she took a turn and suddenly, they were in a place John knew all too well. It was hard not to know, actually. There were hundreds of people walking around and the National Gallery stood tall, right in the north of the Trafalgar Square.

     "Do you drive?"

     John, who had been looking through the window, turned his head so he was looking at Sophie. "I do. Why?"

     "Because clearly I am not going to find a place to park," she said, and honestly, she didn't have to say another word; John knew what she should be thinking. But she did anyway. "Do you think you can drive round for a bit? It won't take long, I promise."

     "Sure, no problem."

     "Great," said Sophie as she slowed down and pulled slightly off the road so she could exit the car. "Thank you. I'll meet you right here."

     All John had time to say was "okay" for the next thing he knows, he's alone in the car, still on the passenger seat while Sophie is walking with long and hurries steps towards Trafalgar Square.

     He tried not to think about the several questions that were suddenly flooding his brain, such as _where was she going_ or _what was she going to do_ , and focus on get moving before people start to complain about the car obstructing the way.

–

Even though the square was quite crowded and there were several people occupying the steps, Sophie did not slow her pace until she got to the entrance of the National Gallery.

     There was a reason as to why she was there, though. She hadn't just decided out of nowhere that she wanted to contemplate Monet or Vermeer; even though she appreciated art, that was not what had brought her there—not today.

     The reason, or to be more precise, one of the reasons as to why Sophie had seemingly dropped the case and ended up in a museum out of all places was, believe it or not, entirely work related.

     She was just getting to the central room when the single beep coming from her phone told her visit to the gallery was going to be much faster than she had first anticipated. Taking the device from the right pocket of her coat, it took her only seconds to open the message she'd received, and when she did, when her eyes read the content of it, Sophie stopped moving for a couple of seconds. She should've known...

.

"It always makes me feel a bit melancholy," she said theatrically as she approached the coat-clad figure who was sitting on the bench, appreciating the view, apparently.

     After she texted Mycroft, Sophie composed another message, requesting yet another meeting with another person. And he was there, eyes fixed on Turner's painting, _The Fighting Temeraire_.

     "Grand old war ship," she continued as she sat right beside him. "Being ignominiously hauled away to scrap..."

     Sophie did not need to look at his face to know he was smirking.

     "I did not know what I was expecting," he said, still looking straight ahead. "But strangely enough, the fact that you can quote _Skyfall_ does not surprise me."

     For a moment, the brunette detective didn't say a thing, simply sat there, a small smirk pulling at the corner of her lips which didn't go unnoticed to her companion.

     "So, I gather that you approve of this particular rendezvous," he commented, shifting his eyes from the painting to Sophie's profile.

     "It certainly has its charms, I'll give you that," she said nonchalantly while looking around. Along with the two of them, Sophie saw two young women who were a couple of metres from where they were sitting, apparently talking about John Constable's ' _Salisbury Cathedral and Leadenhall from the River Avon_ ', a small group of four people—two men and two women—was heading towards Room 33; a family of five and an older couple. All things considered, Room 34 of the National Gallery was virtually empty. She briefly wondered how that was even possible for a Sunday, but didn't dwell much on that thought. The number of visitors of the National Gallery was probably the last item on her list of important things that required her attention. "Even if it lacks in originality..."

     It was only then that Sophie fixed her eyes on the man next to her. Blond hair, narrow face, remarkably penetrating light blue eyes; that was a face Sophie knew almost better than her own—which, by the way, wasn't exactly hard—, after all, it's been well over five years since she met Graham Mayfield.

     "It may not be original," said Graham after staring at Sophie for a couple of seconds. "But it is fitting."

     "Maybe on your end."

     Sophie's dark eyes met Graham's steely blue ones and no words were uttered for a couple of seconds. She could tell just by the way he looked at her, that he wanted to say something, anything—but there was not much to be said. Not really. So, before he had the chance to voice whatever things his mind was concocting, Sophie shifted on her seat and reached for something in her coat; an evidence bag.

     "I need you to analyse this to me," she said solemnly, handing him the transparent plastic bag.

     Graham took it willingly, but he couldn't help frowning when he saw what was the content which she was asking him to run analysis.

     "A cigarette end?" He asked curiously. "Why do you want me to analyse a cigarette end?"

     "Because it is important. And I need you to give it precedence."

     "What? Why?" Despite his attempts to understand what could possibly be the motive (or motives) that brought her to ask for his help, Graham was lost. She didn't work for the Secret Service any longer, but she was a Detective Inspector; surely the Scotland Yard had more than a handful of people who could analyse that cigarette end for her. So, why? Why did she need _him_ to do it? More importantly, "Why do I need to give _this_ precedence?"

     Usually, Graham wouldn't question anyone's motives when they asked him to do something like that, but that was Sophie, and while they worked together once before, that wasn't the case anymore. Besides, he wasn't even the responsible for doing the analysis—he worked with technology, for Christ's sake!

     "Because it may be connected to a case I stumbled upon years ago in Scotland, about the time I began. It's been years, I don't know if you will remember..."

     "Lauder?" The Scottish town's name in his mouth sounded a lot like a question, but truth was, Graham wasn't exactly asking; not really. Deep down, he knew.

     Maybe not as deep as he had first thought for when Sophie nodded and said a quiet but very intelligible "yes", Graham only let out a tired sigh.

     That was going to be interesting; not the kind of interesting that he'd be excited about, though. "Does _he_ know?"

     To ask who he was talking about was unnecessary—she knew.

     "No one knows," she answered. "No one except us."

     All of a sudden, Graham felt quite uncomfortable. "You must tell him, Sophie," he told her sternly. "I mean, it's not like this is going to be a secret for much longer now. Once I send this to the lab, he _will_ hear about it."

     "I know," the brunette DI acquiesced. "I'll tell him."

     "Sooner rather than later."

     Graham tried really hard not to show how much he disliked being the only person in on that "secret", but it was Sophie the person he was talking to, and, even though he had sounded casual and all, she knew he wasn't particularly happy about the situation—the subtle change in his breathing pattern and how he shifted a couple of times in the brief space of a few seconds told everything he was trying to hide.

     "You're worried," she said softly. "Don't be. I would never ask anything that would put you in a bad position."

     "I know that. It's just..."

     "I will tell him, Graham," she said reassuringly, "I will see him later today and I will tell him."

     However, despite Sophie's promise, the look Graham addressed her told the brunette that the blond was not entirely convinced, something that Sophie didn't take personally. If things were different, if she were in his shoes, she doubted she'd be comfortable, after all, she had just handed him something that could be tied to the remarkably clever and awfully elusive James Moriarty and his equally slippery associates.

     Checking her watch, Sophie noticed she had spent a few minutes there already and needed to get going; she had told John it'd be brief and he could be waiting for her.

     "I have to go," she said as she stood from the bench. And Sophie was just about to walk out of the room when something occurred to her. "One more thing. In case you find traces of DNA, make sure to check the Armed Forces records, yes?"

     Graham, who had just placed the evidence bag in his coat pocket, turned to look at the woman standing next to him. "Armed Forces?" he questioned half surprised.

     "Yes. And please, do call me as soon as you get the results."

     "You don't have to say," Graham told her wryly. That was something that she did not need to ask; he would call her immediately after he had the results, without wasting one single second, for he didn't want to be holding that information longer than necessary.

     The corners of Sophie's lips pulled. "It was nice seeing you again, Graham," she said softly as she turned on his heels.

     She had opened a small distance from the bench she'd been sitting with Graham, but she heard it all right when he groaned about how it "could have been better". The small smile that had been playing with her lips grew bigger for a second, before it vanished as she bowed her head and tucked both her hands in the front pockets of her coat.

    Inhaling deeply, Sophie walked out of the National Gallery; keeping her head down, she descended the steps and crossed the square, heading towards the place she'd told John she would be waiting for him.

     He wasn't there, though, and it gave her time to think about the conversation she had with her former co-worker and friend, and come to the conclusion that Graham was right; it could have been better, but what really wiped the smile off her face was the fact that some things were about to go worse... and that had to do with the other reason why she had told Lestrade she wasn't going to return to the station: Holmes.

     Just like she'd told John, Sophie never really got the chance to meet the infamous consulting detective, but she did know Mycroft Holmes. Oh, yes. And because of that, because she knew him quite well, when she sent him a text requesting a meeting with the man (perhaps demanding, depending on how one would interpret her words), not for half a second did Sophie think she would be the one breaking the news regarding Sherlock's return. No. Sophie's interest in meeting the man who was basically the British government personified was essentially professional. _Essentially_ being the key word, because the main content of the conversation she planned to have with Mycroft involved the late James Moriarty.

     Moriarty, yes.

     Never mind the fact that the media had blindly accepted the "Rich Brook" plot as gospel; even after his demise, James Moriarty's legacy continued. And it all bothered Sophie at first—how was it possible that they had let the media spread such nonsense when she knew for a fact that Moriarty was _not_ the product of one's imagination? Not only her, but a considerable number of people (not to mention Mycroft Holmes himself) knew, so how? Then, it dawned on her.

     They knew. They knew that the story the papers were selling, albeit palatable, beautifully and neatly wrapped up with truth, wasn't but a lie and yet they did nothing to refute those statements. As revolting as it could be (and Sophie found it to be exactly that), they elected to remain silent, because it was convenient to do so. It was more suitable for all agencies, be them the MI5, MI6, DI, GCHQ or whatever other acronyms that could have anything to do with those interests, to just play along and feign ignorance, because there was a possibility—even if a very slim one—that, with the main piece out of the game, the pawns would get careless.

     Back then, Sophie had deemed such "plan" outrageous. In her opinion, it wasn't much of a plan to begin with; to sit and wait for Moriarty's pupils to come out from their hiding spot? _Really_?

     But Sophie would be damned. Somehow, the whole sitting around and waiting thing had paid off. Only she should've known things wouldn't be easy.

     Speaking of...

     Sophie was standing on the very spot she'd told John she would be when a black sedan came to a stop right in front of her. At first, she paid no mind to it; maybe they pulled over so that someone would get out of the car like she did. It was only when the driver got out of the car and opened the back door that she realised what was really happening.

     Shifting her attention from the streets to the luxurious sedan in front of her, Sophie watched, not nearly surprised, when a woman stepped out of the car. Long dark hair, slightly tanned skin, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit and eyes fully focused on the phone she had in her hands.

     A low chuckle escaped Sophie's lips and she shook her head softly. _Of course..._

     After a couple of seconds—and that surprised Sophie quite a bit—, the woman before her looked away from the phone she'd been typing for God only knows how long and raised her eyes to meet the DI's.

     "Sophie."

     The fact that she'd been addressed by her first name did nothing to Sophie's demeanors, and the brunette detective replied with an equally casual, "Anthea."

     Neither said anything for a moment. They simply exchanged a smile.

     Sophie and Anthea were not strangers; they knew each other for quite some time now due to Sophie's former job.

     "I presume you're to take me to some secret and inconspicuous rendezvous, am I wrong?" Sophie asked, though it was hardly a mystery to her; she already knew the answer.

     Anthea's smirk grew bigger. "It will hardly be a secret to you," she replied taking a step closer to the car. She hadn't even bothered to close the door.

     "After you," said Sophie, gesturing towards the backseat.

     While waiting for Anthea to get back in the black sedan, Sophie looked around in hopes to catch a glance of her Freelander 2 and, by consequence, John. She had told him she would be waiting for him and she really disliked the idea of leaving and not telling him.

     But John was nowhere to be seen, and, if she put things in perspective, it was _really_ important to talk to Mycroft, far more important than dinner, certainly. So, after a few brief seconds and despite her conflicted feelings regarding leaving without saying a word to the man who had gone through quite a lot with her for the sake of the investigation, Sophie followed Anthea and got into the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Not really sure if anyone's still reading this, but if you are, I owe you a thousand apologies.
> 
> I am really sorry for the unplanned hiatus, but with the lack of feedback (that was really discouraging if I'm to be honest) and the huge pile of things I need to study, I haven't had much time to write. But here it is. Chapter Eleven, Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and a few other (interesting?) things. How do you like it? What are your thoughts on this? Suggestions, critiques, anything? Tell me! I love to hear from you guys and your comments are invaluable to me. Really. And it helps my muse so much. So, comment, yes? And I'll try to update faster.
> 
> Speaking of updates, depending on the response, I promise that I'll try not to go on an unplanned hiatus again. Things is, I'm drowning in Human Rights, Constitutional, Administrative, Labour Law and a shitload of other things related. I have this exam the following month which is kind of a great deal and I need to study. So, depending on what you people have to say (if you have anything to say that is), I'll try to post something before the first half of September, deal? Deal.
> 
> All in all, thank you all for reading. Hope you all have a nice weekend/week/weeks to come. Bless you.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with (I wish I was, though). No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> This story has not been Beta read and because English isn't my first language, I apologise in advance for any mistakes you might find.

  **Chapter Twelve**  


"Come on. Come on, come on..."

From the driver seat of Sophie's Land Rover, John cursed the two people who got themselves involved in the car accident that was causing a traffic jam on the section of the Strand he was currently driving through; or perhaps  _attempting to_  would be a more appropriate term.

Glancing at his watch, John could only hope that Sophie's quick stop wouldn't be so quick as it had been when she had to stop by her place earlier that day for he didn't want to leave her waiting for too long. Even though he had nothing to do with the accident, it seemed something rude.

"No, no, no! Don't stop!" He straightened up on the seat as he protested from inside Sophie's vehicle, but it was too late.

John hated when people slowed down to have a look at what was happening. It was an accident. A bloody accident with no victims—if there were any, they would've known by now, that's for sure—so why couldn't they just keep going and stop holding the traffic? There were people who had things to do.

A low grunt of frustration escaped John's lips when the driver in front of him hit the brakes once more.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

Sitting back, John checked his watch again. It's been a bit over five minutes since Sophie had gotten out of her car and headed to the Trafalgar Square. To be fair, the elapsed time was hardly too much, but John was getting impatient. Why exactly? He couldn't tell for sure.

He had managed to move a couple of metres to stand behind a bus when his phone rang. They weren't moving so John took that time to grab his phone which was lying on the passenger seat.

"Hello?"

_"John, it's Sophie."_

That was a surprise. Well, almost. "Oh. Sophie. Hi. Uh— there's been an accident on the Strand, an—"

John was in the middle of his explanation as to why he wasn't there yet when Sophie spoke again, interrupting him mid-sentence.

_"John, listen. Never mind the traffic jam on the Strand; there was a setback."_

"Oh."

_"Yeah... so that quick thing I had to do, it is going to take a little longer than I first anticipated. I'm sorry. I really am."_

"No, it's fine. No problem. Don't worry."

_"I was hoping you would understand. You have my car so if you want to go home or, do anything else you need to do, it's fine. I can get it back tomorrow or something, just— would you mind if I asked you to stop by my place? Mary will be waiting and I'm not sure when I'll get home. I'd call her but..."_

It did not sound like Sophie had finished whatever it was that she wanted to tell or ask John, but he blurted out a quick "No."

And it was only a moment later that he realised that that 'no' had probably sounded a tad too harsh and it did not express what he really wanted to tell her. Shaking his head and mentally cursing himself, John quickly added, "I mean, no, I wouldn't mind..."

_"Oh, thank you, John. I owe you."_

A low chuckle escaped John's lips. Did she really say she owed him? He didn't quite agree with the brunette detective. John was supposed to be the one assisting the DI, but if he was to be honest, out of that partnership of sorts they had, Sophie had assisted John more than the other way around.

He was planning on telling her that it was all fine and she didn't owe him anything, but didn't get the chance, for the next thing he heard, she was telling him she had to go and that he could call her if anything happened.

What exactly did she mean by that? John had no idea, but he agreed and bid his goodbyes—he didn't think she heard that, though—before dropping his phone on the passenger seat once more and facing the road ahead.

While he was on the phone with Sophie, John had managed to get away from the traffic jam. Biting on his lower lip, he mentally traced the best route to Sophie's—and Mary's—address.

_—_

It was almost six when a black Jaguar stopped in front of a two-story house, in Pall Mall.

In spite of everything that was going on—particularly, the mysterious death of Ronald Adair, which seemed to be the one subject that all London was interested, and the rest of the world dismayed, due to its most unusual and inexplicable circumstances—, it hasn't been an exceptionally long and stressful day for Mycroft Holmes. Not longer and more stressful than usual, that is, though he knew such thing was about to change.

_Sooner rather than later,_  Mycroft thought to himself as he unlocked the front door and got into his place.

–

"I would offer you some tea," Mycroft said unaffected as he stepped into his seemingly empty sitting room and headed towards the small table where he kept a crystal bottle that held the best scotch there was. "But I think the occasion asks for something stronger..."

As he poured two glasses of the drink, Mycroft Holmes heard the very distinct yet quite faint sound of a brief and mildly amused chuckle.

"Single malt... that's quite stronger."

Placing the bottle back on the silver tray, Mycroft Holmes grabbed both glasses and crossed the room.

"Not sure if I agree," he murmured to himself as he approached one of the two tall armchairs that sat in front of the fireplace and extended his hand, handing out one the two drinks.

Lean, long fingers took told of the glass. "Thank you."

The ghost of a smile played with Mycroft's lips as he turned his back to his visitor and made his way towards the other armchair.

For a few brief moments, silence settled upon the two figures that occupied the two seats right in front of the fireplace.

"You're home early."

Mycroft's gaze had been fixed upon the fire box, which held no fire, but he shifted his attention back to his far from unexpected visitor when he heard that remark.

"Normally you stay at the Diogenes Club until twenty to eight."

"Normally. But today isn't a normal day," he replied blankly. "Is it, Sherlock?"

The person occupying the other armchair was no one other than Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft's younger brother.

Surely the Holmes's boys were hardly the finest example of siblings who had a loving relationship, but not many people would have been able to correctly infer that there were two brothers that had not seen each other in months. To some people, especially those who weren't familiar with Mycroft and Sherlock, the sense of informality that permeated all aspects of that encounter (the tone of their conversation, how they regarded one another and the overall atmosphere in the room they were), while fairly normal and natural to their standards, could be considered quite overwhelming.

"Suppose it is not," the younger Holmes acquiesced as he brought the glass to his lips and tasted the amber liquid. Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together in his usual pensive expression as he fixed his attention on the drink for a few seconds. "All things considered... But you've been busy," he added, changing the focus of his attention from the glass to his brother.

Mycroft could feel Sherlock's eyes locked on him, but he didn't respond to his brother's comment instantly. He inhaled deeply and sat back; raised his eyebrows and let his gaze fall upon the empty fireplace once again for a few seconds. It was only then that he turned his head so he was looking at Sherlock.

"Not as busy as you've been," he replied with an air of nonchalance that was entirely Mycroft's. "Been to China, Norway, France... For a presumed dead person, you are very mobile."

Sherlock didn't even try to mask the smirk that made its way to his lips when he heard Mycroft's words. Was he surprised by the fact that his brother knew of his whereabouts? Of course not. Not by a long shot.

"What is it that people often say?" Sherlock said, shifting on the seat and leaning back as he assumed a more comfortable position. "Life goes on..."

"Suppose it does," replied Mycroft absently as he checked his watch.

It's been long enough since he told his assistant to bring this particular Detective Inspector over and, in all honesty, he expected her to be there already.

"So, how did the call to the British Embassy in Australia go?" Sherlock asked, pulling Mycroft from his thoughts. "I gather... not so great, but then again, you did manage to keep it from becoming something huge. What did you tell him? Mr. Adair senior, I mean."

"Only the truth," Mycroft replied, glancing at Sherlock. "That it is being taken care of."

The youngest Holmes gave a snort of laughter. "Being taken care of? You mean by the Scotland Yard?!"

The mocking tone which Sherlock had embedded in his words was more than evident. But it didn't affect Mycroft. Instead, an expression of mild amusement appeared on his face and a small yet very conspicuous smile made its way to his lips.

"You would be surprised," said Mycroft as he casually drank his scotch.

From his seat, Sherlock simply arched an eyebrow as he regarded his brother in a rather dubious manner. Be surprised? Him? That was highly unlikely. And he would have made some comment about that if someone had not chosen that very moment to knock on the door.

"Mr. Holmes," a grave voice of a man filled the room, clearly addressing Mycroft. Sherlock didn't move one muscle, he simply watched his brother straighten up and look at the door, where said man—probably one of his employees—should be standing. "She's here."

Much to Sherlock's surprise, a smile appeared in his brother's face. It wasn't as if he had never seen him smile before; he had. But that had to be one of the few times he had seen  _that_  smile. Usually, Mycroft's expression of amusement involved a not so subtle amount of sarcasm, which did not happen this time.

Drawing his eyebrows together, Sherlock watched with mild curiosity as his brother stood from his seat.

"Excellent," said Mycroft, and his tone only added to Sherlock's already intrigued state. "Send her in."

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock placed his half empty glass of scotch on the small table that sat between the two armchairs and stood from his own seat. He ran his hands down his shirt out of habit.

–

There were many words that could describe Sherlock Holmes's attitude towards meeting new people or any other social events there were. Arrogant, conceited, difficult, rude, obnoxious; those were just a few examples of adjectives that were linked to the world's only consultant detective as he was known. He was hardly known for his courteous manners. The main reason why he stood before she walked into the quite ample sitting room was probably so he could have a better view.

From where he stood, Sherlock simply observed, as he normally did, every single detail from the moment the brunette woman entered the room.

"Mycroft," she said as her eyes spotted the older Holmes, who was currently making his way across the room. Slow steps until he met her halfway.

Her voice was measured and solemn, but Sherlock could hear the underlying emotions that were embedded in her tone and overall attitude. The way she said Mycroft's name—first name, not surname—suggested she was a somewhat pleased with that meeting, but her posture and the way she moved—strict and formal—that told Sherlock she wasn't entirely at ease.

But if Mycroft had noticed that—and Sherlock knew his brother enough to know that he had noticed—, he did not show. Both his hands came to the woman's arms and he kissed her on the cheeks right before replying with a casual, "Sophie."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. He would never admit to such thing but, for a split second, he was quite surprised. Doing what he did for a living, Sherlock knew Mycroft's manners were more "polished" than his, but still; kisses on the cheeks? He didn't really see that coming.

"Glad you could make it," said Mycroft in his casual yet gallant manner.

Sherlock had to fight the urge to roll his eyes at the exchange between his brother and the brunette DI, so tedious and dull it was. But things got a somewhat interesting when he heard something that sounded an awful lot like a snort, albeit less rude. It picked Sherlock's attention almost instantly.

"Like I had another choice," replied Sophie, and Sherlock could tell by the way she looked at Mycroft and the rather smug tone she used that her uneasiness had little to do with Mycroft's credentials.

They knew each other fairly well but despite the familiarity of their relationship, there were other places she'd rather be.

How could he tell? Sophie Hunter was a Detective Inspector, so it was pretty obvious that she knew who Mycroft Holmes was, but she didn't act or behave like any other DIs that Sherlock knew whilst around Mycroft, not to mention that she was involved in a rather important case, so odds were that she worked for Mycroft before and under a different agency. But something was telling Sherlock that maybe there was more. There was a sense of familiarity surrounding those two that, if Sherlock didn't know better, he would have imagined Sophie was related to them...

For a fleeting moment, Sherlock entertained the possibility of a former romantic involvement, but just as quickly he dismissed it. That was not only highly unlikely, but also improbable. Mycroft could be better in the art of dealing with people, but he would never mix work with sentimentality, and Sophie didn't seem to be attracted to his brother in the slightest, so it lead him to the reason why Sophie didn't seem completely at ease, and probably the reason why she was there in the first place: Ronald Adair's case.

With the exception of what was the history beneath Mycroft and Sophie's  _friendship_ , so far, so obvious.

"If I recall correctly," Mycroft said, pulling Sherlock from his musings. "It was you who asked for this meeting."

"Well, cannot argue with that," Sophie replied nonchalantly. "But this is hardly the  _meeting_  I had in mind," she added and, for the first time since she stepped inside that room, she looked away from Mycroft.

Dark eyes met blue's for Sherlock had finally ditched the contact lenses, along with the blond wig. He was still left with his unusual wardrobe, though.

"Looks more like a family reunion of sorts..."

Hearing Sophie's comment, Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a glance before they both dismissed it.

"Hardly a family reunion," Mycroft refuted as he gently guided Sophie further into the room, towards the place where Sherlock stood stoically. "I gather you already know my brother," the older Holmes said as he indicated the man before them.

"Not personally," Sophie said stretching out a hand, her eyes locked on Sherlock's.

Taking a little step forward, Sherlock took the brunette's hand in his. "Detective Inspector Hunter," he greeted; his voice a monotonous tone.

"Mr. Holmes," Sophie replied, trying to appear as unaffected as he had. "Or perhaps I should call you... Mr.  _Sigerson_ ," she added as her free hand reached inside her left pocket of her coat and pulled a burgundy booklet.

Sherlock's eyes shifted from Sophie's dark orbs to the thin book she had in her hands. He had noticed the absence of his passport before and had already come to the conclusion that, just like he had taken her ID badge, Sophie could have taken his passport as well; it was the only reasonable explanation. But still, seeing it in her possession made something stir inside him. Maybe Mycroft was right; maybe—just maybe—there was a slim possibility of him being surprised. Wouldn't be easy, but...

"Great disguise," Sophie said, handing the passport back to its owner. Letting go of her hand, Sherlock accepted the booklet from Sophie and placed it back where it was until she took it - the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Almost fooled me."

Sherlock was adjusting his jacket when he heard those three words. His movements stilled immediately and he raised his head so he was looking directly at Sophie.

"Almost?" The unexpected sensation that Sherlock experienced when he heard Sophie's words was easily noticed on the tone he'd used and on his face, although his facial expression remained a somewhat passive in comparison with his voice.

Despite of the fact that she was under the youngest Holmes's intent and dubious gaze, Sophie did not falter. If anything, she was slightly amused by that for a ghost of a smile played with her lips for a couple of seconds.

"You managed to successfully alter several important and most recognisable aspects of your appearance," she said, and it sounded an awful lot like an explanation. "Changed your mannerisms, even your voice, which was really impressive..."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes softly as he often did. He had done everything she'd said and then some. "But?"

Sophie pursed her lips together and slightly tilted her head to the right. "But there were things you couldn't change, and even though we've never met before, I've seen photos of you and I would recognise those eyebrows, jaw line and high cheekbones anywhere. But what really gave you away was this dark speckle you have above your pupil." Raising her right hand, Sophie used her pinky finger to point at Sherlock's right eye. "Right... there. It's uniquely yours, as your facial structure."

Inhaling deeply, Sherlock straightened up and unnecessarily smoothed the front of his jacket as he continued to regard the woman standing before him. Seconds elapsed and he did not say a thing about Sophie's observations. Out of the two Holmes, it was Mycroft who disrupted the silence that followed.

"Are we surprised yet?" He asked, visibly entertained.

However, despite Sherlock's lack of verbalisation, he remained unaffected by that entire exchange.

"Hardly," said the youngest Holmes as he finally looked away from Sophie so he could face his sibling. "Clearly Miss Hunter here worked for the MI6, her last position being the one of a field agent before she handed her resignation, which you reluctantly accepted, and, eventually, joined the Scotland Yard. Arguably an upgrade, might I add," said Sherlock, sparing a glance at a very silent Sophie for a split second before turning his undivided attention back to Mycroft. "So, her past not only explains your connection, but the reason why her observation skills are of a higher level than the ones of an ordinary person as well. Now, perception is not a job requirement, though, in this case, I believe it should be, but clearly she understands the concept and makes decent use of it. It also leaves very little room for speculation as to why Lestrade would bring a relatively new DI into the case of Ronald Adair's death. I've only faked my death, Mycroft. My brain still works perfectly."

Mycroft's response resumed to a wry and joyless smile directed to his brother. Sophie did not miss the odd interaction between the two Holmes, but years working for Mycroft had taught her not to meddle. Years of working for Mycroft were also the reason why she wasn't half as surprised as she would have been when she heard Sherlock talking about her past as if they were old friends and had known each other their entire lives, and also about more recent things as if they'd just had some friendly conversation about work and whatnot... Although, the fact that he knew she had resigned instead of being fired caused her to frown lightly.

Even though she wasn't taken aback by Sherlock's intellectual prowess, Sophie still wanted to ask him how. How did he know—or better yet, how did he notice—, but it would have to wait, because Sherlock was right.

"Indeed it does," Sophie said, breaking the not so comfortable silence that had settled upon the three of them. "So, if you two are done," she addressed a sharp look at the two men, "I believe we have more important things to talk about rather than my career choices."

For a brief second, Sherlock glanced at Sophie out of the corner of his eyes and with an eyebrow slightly arched. There was a woman who didn't seem to have any problems speaking his mind, regardless of the person she was talking to. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Sherlock chanced a glance at Mycroft's direction to see what would be his brother's reaction to her words, but his expression remained placid for he did not mind the way she spoke. Not that he expected something different given the fact that Mycroft had some plans that included Sophie's return to the intelligence, but still. It was worth checking.

"Precisely," said Sherlock as he took a couple of steps away from Sophie and Mycroft and towards the armchair he'd been sitting until moments ago. "Park Lane Mystery," he announced—and quite cheerfully, Sophie noticed—as he reached out to pick something that should be lying on the seat all this time. "Hardly a  _mystery_  to be honest, but it is the reason why we are all gathered here."

There was nothing in Sherlock's words and voice, anything about his demeanours that could give the impression that he was suggesting it when he said that what happened at Park Lane was the reason why they were there. He had downright stated it, and Mycroft knew it, just like Sophie knew it. But such thing didn't keep Mycroft from turning to Sophie.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He had forgotten how ordinary his brother could be, despite of everything...

Because they were siblings, there were quite a few things that Sherlock and Mycroft had in common. For instance, both of them had great power of observation and peculiar facility for deduction, even though Mycroft had them in a larger degree that Sherlock did. But, just like every other siblings, they also had their differences. Unlike Sherlock, the first-born Holmes was incapable of using his faculties for detective work. If said work began and ended in reasoning from an armchair, Mycroft Holmes would be the greatest detective (or criminal) that ever lived. But as Sherlock had already observed, Mycroft did not have the ambition or the energy. Although things were different when it came to people.

Because of his work, Sherlock considered people as clients, and a client was just a mere unit, a factor in a problem. In order to solve said problem, he needed to remain partial and emotional qualities—whatever they were—were antagonistic to clear reasoning. Now about Mycroft, in his line of work, 'people' had a strong tendency to be more than just factors in a problem; more often than not—and this was clearly Sophie's case—, they were of vital necessity, so Mycroft had to learn how to deal with people. It was simply behaviour developed over time and while Sherlock could fully comprehend the reasoning behind such thing, he still found it dull.

However, for a brief moment, Sherlock wondered how useful such ability could be, and how valuable could Sophie be. He would never admit to such thing, but both things had him slightly intrigued.

Sherlock was pulled from his train of thought when Sophie spoke.

"Oh, you know he's right," she said, and while she wasn't annoyed as he was, there was something in her voice that told Sherlock she didn't expect that reaction from Mycroft. "But there is something else."

A small satisfied smile made its way to Mycroft's lips when he heard that last bit.

"Of course there is," Mycroft commented.

And while it was pretty obvious that Sophie had heard it (she inhaled deeply and stared blankly at Mycroft for a couple of seconds), she tried to act as if she hadn't.

"The thing is," she started, probably a tad harsher than she intended to, "there are some details about this case that connects to another case. In 2007 a woman was murdered in Lauder…"

Sophie was just about to continue with her explanation of sorts but was interrupted by Sherlock, who quipped in the first opportunity he saw. "Cause of death, GSW to the head. Local police arrested the husband for the crime and later on, the jury found him guilty. They were wrong, of course."

He watched out of the corner of his eye how the brunette detective arched her left eyebrow as she stared at him. For a brief moment, Sherlock was quite sure she was going to say something about his remarks, but the next second, she shook her head and turned her attention to Mycroft.

"Whoever put that bullet through Mrs. Stewart's skull six years ago," she began sternly, "did the same to Ronald Adair last night."

The determination in her voice and the way her eyes sparkled with unwavering certainty told, not only Mycroft, but Sherlock Holmes as well, that she was very sure of what she was saying.

"What you are suggesting, Sophie, is–"

But before Mycroft could finish what he was planning to say, Sophie shook her head and interrupted him mid-sentence.

"I am not suggesting. The bullet that killed Adair is a perfect match to the one they recovered from Mrs. Stewart's body. Mycroft, I am  _telling_  you, it was Moriarty's chief of staff. The person who murdered Adair was–"

"Sebastian Moran."

As soon as the name escaped Sherlock's lips, Sophie abruptly turned her head so she was facing him. The look of surprise in her dark eyes was pretty hard to miss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there was one chapter that I was eager to post, this was it. However, I must admit, I wasn't entirely convinced of it as I finished but I'm also unsure I can make it any better so I can but hope it was good enough. Was it? Tell me what you thought, but please, be gentle.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> This story has not been Beta read and because English isn't my first language, I apologise in advance for any mistakes you might find.

** Chapter Thirteen **

 

Mary Morstan was on her way back home after taking Toby for a walk when she spotted a familiar face across the street.

     "Good evening, Mrs. Hudson," she said, getting the old woman's attention.

     Surely the landlady of number 221B had seen Mary for she waved when she heard her own name; however, the petite blonde though something was a bit off.

     The always cheerful and kind woman seemed to be... stressed out? No. That wasn't the word; not quite. But something seemed to be disturbing her.

     For a brief moment, Mary thought about asking if everything was all right, but before she could do it, Martha Hudson reached the dark green door and bidding her a good evening as well, walked into the place.

 _Well, that was perfectly normal,_ she mused.Except it wasn't really.

     Mary's eyebrows drew together. She entertained the idea of crossing the street and knocking on the other woman's door, but as quickly as the idea occurred, it was dismissed. People were entitled to their privacy, and if there was anything wrong, surely Mrs. Hudson would have said something, anything… would she not? Yes. Certainly she would.

     Mrs. Martha Hudson had been very kind to both Mary and Sophie when they moved to the flat across the street. She was a kind-hearted and very sympathetic woman and even though they didn't see each other that often, she was always friendly and the blonde had invited the kind old lady for tea quite a few times. Mrs. Hudson wasn't Mary's landlady or her closest friend, but they were a somewhat friendly—friendly enough for her to advise Mary on quite a few matters and to share some of her stories…

     So, with that thought in mind, Mary gently pulled at Toby's leash and resumed her walk back to her own flat. She had not taken three steps when she stopped again at the sight of the dark Land Rover pulling out into an empty parking spot a few metres from where she was standing.

     She watched with mild interest as the driver manoeuvered the vehicle.

     The only reason why she was a somewhat interested was because the person behind the steering wheel, albeit not a complete stranger, was not Sophie. An amused smirk played over Mary's face; it took John some time and a few extra movements, until he turned off the engine.

     "It is a bit strange to drive someone else's car, isn't it?" The blonde woman commented as John walked over to the pavement.

     He was glancing over his shoulder, apparently checking if he'd parked right, but he quickly turned his head so he was facing her. "What? Oh. Yes. Yes. I mean, uh– it is a bit... strange."

     Mary tried to stifle a giggle, but failed. The look of surprise in John's eyes when he took notice of her presence there and how he stuttered a little was quite amusing, and the way his blue eyes seemed to glimmer with something akin to admiration as they met hers was quite flattering made Mary bit on her lower lip as she continued to look at the man before her, trying really hard not to beam.

     "And I am not exactly used to driving around." John spared another glance to Sophie's vehicle. "I usually take the tube or a cab, so..."

      "Well, that explains a lot." Tilting her head slightly to the side, Mary changed her attention from John to the car. She knit her eyebrows together, assuming a thoughtful expression. "Took you some time and a lot of maneouvering... but at least you didn't hit anything. Or anyone."

     Looking back at John, Mary noticed he was staring at her; his bright blue eyes were shadowed by his furrowed eyebrows. Apparently, he had taken her seriously.

     "I was joking," she said, easing her expression and smiling at him. "You were pretty good."

     "You think so?"

     "Of course I do."

     Mary only noticed she'd answered too fast—and maybe a tad too enthused—after the words tumbled out of her lips, as if they had a will of their own. She held her breath and bit on her lips when she noticed his blue eyes staring at her, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Underneath his intent gaze, Mary instantly felt cheeks warming up.

     "So," she hurried to speak and to avoid the awkward silence that she sensed was about to settle. "Are you here to fetch Toby?"

     The sudden change of subject worked better than she had expected and John's charming smile disappeared along with his flattering blue eyes. Part of her missed it almost instantly.

     "Toby?" John asked confused. It was only when Mary held the leash higher that he understood what she was talking about. "The dog, right. No, I'm not here for the dog... I'm here because Sophie asked me to tell you that–"

     "That she will not come for dinner," Mary said, interrupting John mid-sentence as she let her arm fall to her side as she shut her eyes closed and tilted her head backwards for a split second. Her tone was quite monotonous and her face was blank when looked at John once again. "That was the message, wasn't it?"

     "Actually, yes," he replied, uncomfortably shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "That was pretty much it."

     Mary shifted her eyes to the pavement and laughed humourlessly. "I knew it," she murmured under her breath as she scratched Toby between his ears.

     After a couple of seconds, she raised her head once more and found John's eyes fixed on her. He seemed to be concerned, confused or somewhere in the middle. But then again, he had every reason to be for he had come to deliver a message and she'd taken it rather unkindly. And realising it made her feel bad.

     "Sorry," Mary said lightly. "I didn't mean to sound so... _bitchy_." Her face twitched lightly and she wrinkled her nose up as she said that last word. She did sound a bit bitchy, had she not?

     A grunt of embarrassment made it past her lips and Mary mentally kicked herself. She was an adult, for Christ's sake, not some teenage girl who was feeling bitter for her best friend had stood her up.

     She was just in the middle of a mental scolding when the faint but very distinct sound of a giggle snapped her out of her thoughts and she raised her eyes so she was facing John.

     Of all reactions he could've expressed, the smile he offered her was probably amongst the very last ones Mary could have imagined. And he seemed to be oddly entertained, she noticed.

     "I don't think you sounded bitchy," John said. His tone almost explanatory, but mostly reassuring.

     "Please. You don't have to be so nice."

     "But I'm not being nice. I actually meant it. Really."

     And just like that, Mary stopped chastising herself. There was something about John, something about the way he talked and looked at her that made her feel as she hadn't just made a fool of herself. She found that she really liked it.

     "Why then thank you," she replied with a smile. "That's very kind of you to say..."

     A few seconds passed by until Mary remembered where they were; she briefly wondered how was it possible that she'd forgotten about pretty much everything (including Mrs. Hudson) as she spoke to John, but she didn't reach any conclusions regarding that matter for that thought was quickly replaced by yet another realisation when she caught a glimpse of John's hands and he was fiddling with Sophie's car keys.

     "Oh, but you must be busy. I mean, you probably need to go back and meet with Sophie and I'm here, keeping you from–"

     "Actually," John interrupted Mary; his voice was low and a somewhat measured. "I'm not busy. Sophie said it would take a while, and it sounded like something private, so..."

     Mary's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh."

     "Yes," John said with a short nod. "So you don't need to apologise. I was just... going home."

     "I see... Well, maybe I could offer you something to drink then? Before you go? What do you say?"

     She bit on her lower lip as she waited for John's answer. Now she'd already said that, Mary thought that maybe offer was a bit sudden, and maybe a tad too straightforward. But before she could start over thinking the situation she'd gotten herself into, she saw a smile appear on John's lips and his eyes seemed to glow.

     "I'd say I'd love that."

     The petite blonde's face split into a wide smile but she quickly averted her eyes from John so he wouldn't see the blush that was definitely colouring her cheeks a brighter shade of pink.

     Gently pulling at Toby's leash, Mary ushered the dog into the building she lived, with an equally cheerful John following one step behind her.

—

For a moment or two, Sherlock's ridiculously deep voice echoed in Sophie's ears, repeating Moran's name over and over and over again.

     The first question her brain was able to come up with as she openly stared at Mycroft's brother was _how did he know that?_ And it took her about a second to realise how incredibly stupid that question was. How did he know? He was a Holmes, for God's sake! He was _the_ Sherlock Holmes; if anything, she should be surprised if he did _not_ know.

     Mentally slapping herself for her naïveté, Sophie brushed those thoughts aside and tried to focus on the problem that still remained, which was how they would deal with Sebastian Moran. However, before she could bring that matter to everyone's attention, the brunette DI noticed when the ghost of a smile touched the corners of Sherlock's mouth and his aquamarine eyes acquired this smug look.

     Even though it all happened quite fast and not a single word was uttered, Sophie knew that he had not missed the brief moment in which she was completely surprised, rendered speechless and probably knew—with scary precision—what thoughts had crossed her mind.

     Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, Sophie simply shook her head and searched for Mycroft once again. Not that she believed things would be any different with the other man—he certainly knew just as much as Sherlock, if not more—, but at least she knew him longer and was used to addressing to him under similar circumstances, given her previous job position.

     "We have a problem in our hands," she told him sternly. "And a rather elusive one if I may."

     Her dark eyes locked onto Mycroft's blue ones and she managed to ignore his brother's gaze which she felt was still lingering on her. Inhaling deeply, she willed Sherlock out of her mind. Old habits die hard, she thought to herself. Working as a field agent for the Secret Intelligent Service, Sophie had grown accustomed to being alert at all times and never letting her guard down for it could mean success or failure—and failure didn't only mean losing a case; it could also mean losing your life—but Sherlock was hardly a threat and this was nothing like how it used to be. At least not for Sophie it wasn't. As for Mycroft Holmes, on the other hand...

     The brunette DI was quite convinced that, just like Sherlock, Mycroft already knew that Moriarty's everything man was probably the person behind it all. However, despite the apparent calmness, Sophie had serious doubts he was feeling that at ease on the inside. Even though he was Mycroft Holmes, he should be at least a little bit concerned for they had never been able to lay hands on the man. Ever. And the only reason why she knew that was because, during her days as a field agent, Sophie had come across several cases—some cases she was assigned herself, though others she simply heard or read about—that were connected to Moriarty's criminal network and to the man who was his right hand, Sebastian Moran, which, by the way, she wasn't even sure of his identity until today for they had come across many aliases and never seen a decent photograph of the man. Sadly enough, he was that good, and if she were in his shoes, Sophie knew she wouldn't be that tranquil, and Mycroft was the very image of composure and assurance. Perhaps that's why she would never be as essential and indispensable as Mycroft Holmes—nor would she ever want to be. Imagine all the trouble. God, no.

     "Of course you may," said Mycroft, pulling Sophie from her thoughts. She blinked a couple of times and couldn't help but notice that his voice had this strange reassuring tone which was a perfect match to his demeanor. "But you don't have to worry about that, my dear. He will not be a problem for too long."

     Sophie's eyes widened and she didn't even try to pretend she wasn't stunned after hearing what he had just said. She wanted to ask him what did that mean, or if he was joking—because really?—, though she had momentarily lost her ability to speak; instead, Sophie simply stood there, openly glaring at Mycroft, whose expression remained as casual and insouciant as ever. _How was that even possible?_

     "Seems like someone does not believe you, dear brother," Sherlock quipped in when Sophie remained silent. She couldn't even be bothered by his obviously accurate comment because she was too busy staring at Mycroft, waiting for a better explanation than the one he had given her—not that she consider ‘ _you don’t have to worry about that for he will not be a problem for too long_ ’ an explanation of any sorts. She definitely did not.

     When she worked for the SIS, Sophie had spent quite some time going after Moriarty and all of his associates and her success rate at that was hardly something she was proud of, and now he said she shouldn't worry about that? She knew Mycroft wasn't one to make jokes, but she was having quite the hard time believing he was being serious.

     "But of course, you saw that coming," Sherlock added completely nonchalantly.

     For a second or two, Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a look; Sophie knew Mycroft enough to tell he was a bit annoyed by his brother's remark, so she assumed that Sherlock was the one having fun with the situation. She briefly wondered if those two, despite being the most brilliant human beings, still behaved like two children when together—something was telling her that yes, sibling rivalry should be the basic dynamic of their relationship indeed when Mycroft's voice pulled her from her reverie.

     "The reason why I told you that is because, this time, we have an advantage." There were still remnants of annoyance in his tone, but more than that, Mycroft had sounded pretty confident, and it was that odd combination along with the subject they were currently discussing that made Sophie arch an inquiring brow.

     "An advantage?"

     "Yes," answered Mycroft, and there was something about his demeanor as he said that, something that she couldn't quite put her finger on and made Sophie shift her weight from one leg to the other and fold her arms across her chest.

     "And what would this _new-found advantage_ be, if you don't mind my asking?"

     Sophie kept her undivided attention fixed solely on Mycroft Holmes, clearly expecting for him to answer her question, but he didn't; instead, she saw the faintest of smiles pulling at the corners of his lips for a split second before he his mask of indifference fell into place once more. For a moment, Sophie entertained the possibility of having imagined such reaction, but that thought was soon pushed aside when she heard this sudden rich baritone voice somewhere behind her and she nearly jumped. His voice had dropped a few notes and he had definitely narrowed the space that existed between them.

     "He doesn't mind," said the youngest Holmes, ever so casually.

     Sophie watched out of the corner of her eyes as he took a couple of steps and stood right next to Mycroft, breathing slowly as she willed her heart rate go back to its normal rhythm. It seemed that Sherlock had missed the way she glared at him for he was addressing a sideway glance at his brother before turning his attention to Sophie. By then, the exchange between the brothers had replaced the aggravation she was feeling and left her with nothing but reserved curiosity.

     "The  _new-found advantage_ ," Sherlock continued casually, as if there were no interruptions. "That my brother speaks so fondly of would be me."

–

Silence settled upon the three figures standing on Mycroft's sitting room for a handful of seconds.

     Deep down, Sophie knew she should have seen that coming. Sherlock's words not only made sense, but also explained some things, such as why the youngest Holmes was there, why he had "visited" the crime scene that afternoon and why he suddenly seemed so inappropriately cheerful... But just because it made sense, didn't mean she was particularly thrilled.

     She was not.

     In the past, Sophie had learnt how to deal with _one_ Holmes, and that had proven to be quite interesting, in a rather frustrating manner at times. But there were two of them now and that was something else entirely; something that Sophie was not exactly looking forward to, especially after she noticed the underlying note of amusement in Sherlock's words and the air of assurance in his bearing that had certainly not been lost upon her.

     A wry laugh escaped her lips as she hung her head.

     "Of course," she murmured to herself, but was very aware of the fact that both Mycroft and Sherlock could hear her. It was only after a moment that she raised her head to face the Holmes's brothers again.

     She was far from surprised when she saw that they were watching her. Mycroft and Sherlock's eyes were fixed on Sophie and she knew they have been observing her every move, considering every breath, analysing the whole of her reactions as if she was some sort of experiment or something like it. As unsettling as it should be, she couldn't even bring herself to be bothered by that because she was a somewhat used to it—though it was weird to have someone she barely even knew looking at her like that. However, she briefly wondered how their childhood and adolescence was; definitely nothing like her own...

     "Well then," began Sophie as she straightened her back and fixing her eyes upon the tall, raven haired man. "Best of luck with that. Not that you need it; I'm sure you'll do better than I did."

     And Sophie really meant that. When she wished him good luck (even though she was pretty sure he didn't need such fleeting thing), she meant every word, and when she said she was sure he'd do better than her, there were no traces of bitterness, jealousy, anything remotely similar to those petty feelings. In all honesty, Sophie really hoped Sherlock could find the man and Mycroft would do whatever it was that his people would do to him—even though she'd been on that side before, at the present moment she didn't want to think what that could possibly be. That part of her life belonged in the past and she fully intended in keeping it that way; not that she regretted it—she did not—, but everything has its time, and that time had come... and it had gone. Biting on her lips, Sophie inhaled deeply, locking those thoughts away. She had enough problems to deal with already; she certainly did not need to dig some more from days gone by.

     "Okay, so. All things considered, I'd say it's been a pleasure meeting you," Sophie told Sherlock. And she was being very honest. _All things considered,_ she was quite pleased to meeting the youngest Holmes, though she would have preferred it had happened under different circumstances.

     That said, Detective Inspector Hunter was more than ready—and willing—to hand over the case to the Holmes and go back to her job; find another case and focus on it, leaving Moriarty, Moran, all that to the two brothers, but, apparently, they had something very different in mind.

     She was just thinking about biding them goodbye and making her way to the door when Mycroft's voice reached her ears.

     "Nice to know that's how you feel," he said, and there was something about his tone and the way his eyes flickered that made Sophie feel as if she was about to be thrown in a lion's den. "Because there is something I need from you..."

     He had not yet said what was that _something_ he needed from her, but Sophie shut her eyes closed and, letting out a heavy sigh, she pinched the bridge of her nose. As she stood in the middle of Mycroft's sitting room, Sophie Hunter wondered if it was the place or the fact that she was in the company of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes and it was starting to affect her because, for a fleeting moment, she thought she was having a glimpse of what it was to be a Holmes for she was quite certain about what was going to happen next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think? Please?  
> Thank you for reading.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> This story has not been Beta read and because English isn't my first language, I apologise in advance for any mistakes you might find.

** Chapter Fourteen **

 

"So," John said conversationally as he placed his glass of red wine on the coffee table that sat directly in front of the impeccable ivory sofa he was currently occupying in Mary and Sophie's flat.

     Shifting on the seat, he turned slightly so he was facing the blonde that sat on the other end of the very same couch. "You and Sophie... You know each other for a long time?"

     Mary mirrored his movements and shifted a bit, straightening her back, though she kept her glass in her right hand.

     "Quite a long time, I'd say," she said with a short nod. "We practically grew up together."

     "Is that so?"

     "Yes. We met when we were but little girls." There was a brief pause while Mary sipped from her wine and John found himself watching her.

     She was an exquisite little thing, he thought; an exquisite and seemingly delicate little thing with her short blonde hair, big blue eyes, bright as the morning star which were accentuated by long eyelashes, pert nose, rosy lips...

     "We went to the same boarding-school," she carried on lightly, pulling John from his musings. Blinking a couple of times, he tried to look as casual as it was possible as Mary's blue eyes met his; she didn't seem to notice he had been immerse in thoughts, and John was quite glad for that.

     "Is that so?"

     Mary nodded softly. "Before he left to India, my father put me in a boarding-school, so I wouldn't be alone, I suppose."

     "But what about your mother?"

     A shade of anxiety crossed the woman's face and John regretted his question almost instantly.

     "My mother passed away soon after my birth," Mary explained, simply confirming what John had imagined.

     Much to John's surprise, her voice was soft and placid. It was the very opposite of what he had expected, but it didn't put an end the feeling of uneasiness that he was experiencing.

     "I'm so sorry about that," John said, and he hoped she could read into his words that he was being completely honest and he was sorry not only about her mother but for approaching the subject with such lack of tact as well.

     "It's okay." Mary offered him a small smile; one that didn't show any traces humour, but simply understanding. "Really. I mean, my father never kept from me what happened to my mother, and he always told me about her, how she was, what she liked, how she loved me even before I was born..."

      As Mary spoke fondly about her family, John believed he saw her eyes glistening; she wasn't exactly sad, though. There were hints of that, but it was mixed with something that John could only name as nostalgia. Maybe her mother had passed when Mary was too young for her to even remember, but it was evident that the petite blonde held the woman in her heart with great esteem.

     "In a way, I always knew her."

     An appreciative smile pulled at the corners of John's lips as he sat there.

     Not for a second did John forget he had known Mary Morstan for less than an hour, though he could positively say that she was quickly becoming one of the most interesting women he had ever met. From the moment he laid eyes on her, John was taken; and as he sat there and heard more about her, John found himself hoping she wasn't compromised.

     Thinking about that possibility made John shift uncomfortably on his seat, and he only noticed he was frowning when Mary looked at him. Up until now, she had been staring ahead; she didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular and simply lost in thoughts and, possibly, memories, but now, she was regarding John with curious eyes.

     He offered her a smile and tried to think about something else.

     "And, what was it like?" he asked before Mary could come up with any questions; he didn't know what he'd say if she asked if there was something wrong, what was he thinking about or any other variants of it.

     "What was what like?"

     The curiosity he'd seen in Mary's eyes were still there, but it was now directed at something else. Inwardly, John sighed in relieve.

     "Boarding-school."

     "Oh, that. It was quite nice," she said, sipping from her wine once more before placing the glass beside John's. "I mean, there were some subjects I didn't like as well as some professors whom all students avoided like the plague; most of people were fine, but there were those who were complete morons... you know, the usual."

     "The usual... right." A chuckle escaped John's lips. Not only she was beautiful, but Mary Morstan could also make him laugh, and that was something John truly appreciated. He changed his attention from the blonde to his feet for a couple of seconds, only to have it shifted back at her moments later.

     "But how about you?" She asked, shifting softly on the couch. It didn't go unnoticed to John that, when she did so, she closed the distance between them by a few inches. "I told you a little bit about me so it's your turn, now. Tell me something about you." Then, her face lit up when she flashed him a bright smile. "Something interesting."

     "Interesting?" Suddenly, John found himself staring at his shoes. "Wow. I don't know. I, uh... I'm not exactly interesting."

     "I find that hard to believe."

     "Why? I'm being honest."

     "Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

     Blue eyes met and John couldn't help but feel as if there was peace in his heart, and it's been a very long time since John had felt like that. The way she looked at him, as if the two of them there, together, sharing stories of their lives, was something natural but quite special, for her eyes seemed to shine like sapphires and her pale cheeks had a soft flush of something that John liked to thing to be pleasure.

     "All right. Well, let's see then... I... I didn't go to a boarding-school."

     Looking at Mary, John saw she had her arm resting against the back of couch with her head was propped against her hand; she seemed to be listening to his words very carefully and smiled at him when his eyes met hers.

     "Go on," she said encouragingly. With a half smirk, John leaned slightly forward. His elbows came to rest upon his knees as he searched his mind for something to share.

—

Before she was intercepted in Trafalgar Square and taken to Pall Mall, Sophie Hunter had already anticipated that this meeting with Mycroft Holmes, considering the essence of the matter they were to talk to, would not be the most pleasant of all meetings. However, despite her realistic expectations, she did not expect that...

_–_

_Sophie could hardly believe her ears as she openly stared at Mycroft; the older Holmes was completely undaunted._

_Shaking her head, Sophie finally found her ability to speak._

_"No," she stated firmly._

_Perhaps, if she were talking to someone else, anyone else, they would have understood the definite tone of her voice, the harshness of her reply and the look in her pitch black eyes that weren't suggesting she was just disagreeing for the sake of it and just moved on. But that wasn't the case. No, sir._

_"Yes," said Mycroft. His demeanor was his usual, cool and completely composed, which only added to Sophie's already aggravated state of mind._

_"No." If she were a kid, she would have stomped her foot. "Talk to Lestrade. You have before; I am positive he will gladly oblige."_

_Did Sophie think Lestrade would_ 'gladly oblige' _? Not really. But anything to get Mycroft and his stupid request off of her._

_"I'm sure he would, but I'm asking you."_

_"And I am telling you, no."_

_There was a brief moment of silence in which Sophie and Mycroft did nothing but stare at each other. It was hardly something that could be called unfriendly, but there was some defiance there, no doubt of that. Mycroft breathed out and it sounded almost like a sigh._

_"Sophie–"_

_"Mycroft."_

_"I need you to do it."_

_"No. No, you do not._ _You mistake need for want."_ _Despite her leveled and low voice, frustration was now flowing from her words like a waterfall. "For Christ's sake, Mycroft, get someone else to do it. If not Lestrade then Gregson. Baynes. Bradstreet... Hell, even Athelney Jones would be fine."_

_Somewhere to her right, Sherlock groaned. Sophie paid no attention to the man but she understood what had triggered such reaction and deep down— or maybe not so deep— she shared his feelings towards Jones._

_"Or," she continued as if nothing had happened. "If it is because you are seeking for someone more– experienced when it comes to Moriarty's criminal network, then summon someone from the MI6. Anyone, really. It’s not like they'll be doing any of the hard work anyway. Just– leave me out of it."_

_–_

The doors of Mycroft's sitting room went open and a stern-looking DI Sophie Hunter all but stormed out, not bothering to close the doors behind her as she strode off in anger.

     The sound of heels clicking against the polished floor echoed through the place as she made her way towards the front door. It was a rather dramatic exit, even Sophie could tell that, but she knew it was best if she got out of there as soon as possible before it could become even more dramatic.

     What was the matter with Mycroft? Really? Out of all people, why did she have to do that? Why her? Surely there were other people who could manage the task. Would it be easy? She seriously doubted that, but still.

     She shut her eyes closed and cursed Mycroft inwardly. For the most part, Sophie had no problems with the man. She knew him long enough to understand and respect him for everything he did, but, every now and then, Sophie had to bite her tongue and inhale very deeply a few times. Mycroft Holmes was quite brilliant, but he could be quite insufferable sometimes… And that happened to be one of those times, in her opinion, and the frustration and exasperation Sophie was experiencing were reaching alarmingly high levels as she made to the front door.

     For a moment, she berated herself. Even though she wasn't a field agent working for the MI6 any longer, she couldn't help but think back about the one thing that she always tried to remember: that she shouldn't let her emotions get the best of her, for it could be compromising, not to mention very dangerous. So, as soon as she stepped out of Mycroft’s residence, Sophie closed her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, trying to rein in on her emotions.

     Took a few seconds, but eventually, she calmed down. She was still a bit annoyed, but that was only natural, given the circumstances. Speaking of which, the faint sound of footsteps coming from the house behind her didn't go unnoticed and Sophie knew who it was without looking.

     "Well, that was quite… interesting."

     That was not exactly what Sophie was expecting to hear when Sherlock stood right beside her. She frowned, but didn't turn to look at the man. "Interesting?"

     "Not many people talk to Mycroft like that."

     "Oh, I assure you they do," Sophie said reaching for her phone in her pocket. "Perhaps not in front of him…"

     She spared a glance at Sherlock, who was looking at her, his face expressionless, blank as a white canvas, which made Sophie shake her head. The Holmes's brothers, honestly…

     But thoughts of Sherlock and Mycroft didn't linger for too long in her mind. She was still waiting for Graham to call her with the analysis results of the cigarette end; after all, if she was to bring Sebastian Moran in, she needed a reasonable excuse to do so. However, much to her great disappointment, he hadn't called nor texted yet. Sure it's been just a few minutes, but still.

     A low sigh escaped Sophie's lips. _So much for postponing the inevitable._

     "All right," she said as she put her phone back inside her coat pocket. "So, let's clear some things up before we start, shall we?" Smartly enough, Sophie did not wait for him to say anything. "First and foremost, John Watson."

     Maybe hearing the name of his former flat mate was not what Sherlock was expecting, for he furrowed his eyebrows lightly as he regarded her curiously. "John? What about him?"

     "Quite a lot, actually. He still mourns you."

     Her already impossible dark eyes acquired a much darker shade, and her tone was quite sharp, Sherlock noticed. If he didn't know better, he would say she was getting defensive. But he did know better, and that was something that had been bothering him ever since he saw Sophie and John, heading towards number 427.

     "What is he to you, Detective Inspector?" asked Sherlock. "You had the whole of the Scotland Yard force and still, you reached out for a civilian..."

     "As you did," Sophie casually replied. "Years ago."

     That he did. Of course, he didn't work for the Scotland Yard, but even so, there was no denying that he had kind of asked John to assist him. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed upon DI Hunter.

     "But that's beside the point," she spoke before Sherlock could say anything else. "What I was saying is: you better tell him you're alive. John is a kind person and he does not deserve this."

     "But you knew I was alive," Sherlock interjected as soon as he had an opportunity. "You've known this for probably a while now, and yet... you did not tell him. Why?"

     "Because it was not my secret; it wasn't up to me to tell him or not. Besides, I know you did what you had to do in order to protect your friends, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to keep your secret..." Sophie was mildly surprised when a look of astonishment flickered through Sherlock's face for half a second. "But I'm telling you right now, your ‘avenging crusade’ or whatever is coming to an end and you must let John know. _Sooner_ ," she added rather adamantly when he opened his mouth, probably to argue. "Rather than later."

     It was one thing not to tell John that Sherlock was alive when the man was far away chasing bad guys, but it was something else entirely different to keep such secret when Sherlock was back in London, wandering about like nothing had happened. She knew how bad it was to lose someone, how much it hurt, and she would simply not allow Sherlock to carry on with that for much longer.

     Sherlock took a long deep breath and tipped up his chin as he held eye contact with Sophie; she could almost feel the struggle he should be experiencing at that moment for the look in his face was something pretty familiar. It was like one of those very rare occasions in which she argued with Mycroft and despite him wanting to have the final word, he knew she wasn't wrong, so he couldn't really refute. In other circumstances, she'd boast about it.

     "Fine," said Sherlock after a few brief seconds.

     That was one thing out of the way, the brunette DI thought and, to be fair, she only half as stressed now, compared to ten minutes ago…

     "Good. Now, I would like to have my badge back, please." She held her hand in front of Sherlock, waiting for him to return it. "I know you have it."

     A ghost of a smile twitched the right corner of Sherlock's lips and Sophie frowned. What exactly was he smiling about was simply beyond her understanding, but she didn't dwell much on that. He was a Holmes after all, and she simply didn't have the energy.

     "Thank you," she replied simply when he handed her ID badge back. "Much appreciated."

     "So, Detective Inspector… would that be all?" asked Sherlock. "Because I would really like to go and have a look at the body."

     He made a brief gesture with his head indicating something to his left, indicating a black Jaguar XJL that was parked right in front of Mycroft's place. Right. She had almost forgotten she had left her car with John.

     Pinching the bridge of her nose, Sophie drew in a deep breath. "Fine, let's get this over with," she said and walked over to the vehicle.

     They had had just descended the two steps and reached the pavement when she stopped; reaching out, Sophie's hand came in contact with his chest and it forced Sherlock to stop as well.

     "Just…" Without further ado, Sophie's hand stopped touching Sherlock and reached inside his jacket pocket, making the man arch an eyebrow questioningly as he looked at her.

     A half smirk pulled at the corner of her lips when she held the car keys between them. "I'm driving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think? Please?  
> Thank you for reading.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> This story has not been Beta read and because English isn't my first language, I apologise in advance for any mistakes you might find.

** Chapter Fifteen **

 

The black Jaguar came to a stop when they reached a red light on the A40. They were only a few metres away from their final destination and Sophie shifted on the driver's seat again. She had done that about five times or so since they left Mycroft's address and her not so subtle movement hadn't gone unnoticed to the man sitting right beside her.

     Glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock couldn't help but think how he had been in a situation quite similar to that one. It was when he had met John.

     On the occasion, John Watson had kept it to himself—or at least tried to; they were on the taxi, heading to Lauriston Gardens, and while John hadn't uttered a single word since they left what was going to be their address—221B Baker Street—, he kept addressing furtive glances when he thought Sherlock was focused on something else, like his phone. But the world's only consulting detective could easily see through John's façade then, just like he could see through Sophie's now.

     Granted, she wasn't as obvious as John had been, but then again, given her background as a spy, he was expecting her to be subtle.

     Anyone else would have simply ignored the way she would bit on her lip every now and then, after all she was a detective working on a case, so she could be thinking about all variables that said case had presented so far, trying to get to the bottom of it. It was a valid theory and quite acceptable, yes. Not to Sherlock Holmes, it was not.

     He had had plenty of time to get to know the young Detective Inspector—or at least most of what was there to know about her. There were bits and pieces that he still hadn't figured out about that woman, but it was simply a matter of time until he unraveled it all, of that he was certain. And he believed he got considerably closer to a full understanding of Sophie Hunter when he noticed her fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

     At first he narrowed his eyes lightly and his eyebrows twitched a bit when he studied her movements, but after a couple of seconds or so, the whole of his expression eased and the right corner of his lip pulled softly.

     _Of course..._

     Sherlock thought of making a comment regarding his brand new—and quite interesting—discovery, but decided against it. Sophie had just pulled the black Jaguar into a vacant parking spot, and while he was eager to solve the mystery that was the one of Miss Hunter, he had a more pressing matter at hand.

–

Sophie had almost forgotten how much she disliked hospitals until she walked through the King Henry VIII gate and followed the dark, tall consulting detective through the corridors of Barts.

     The pristine white walls combined with the glow that came from the halogen lights made the place look so unpleasantly bright it hurt her eyes. The suffocating smell of alcohol and disinfectant that simply couldn't mask the stench of disease and death made her stomach turn into knots. The unpleasant symphony that came from all medical equipment—the constant buzzing, beeping, clicking and air whistling—made her head hurt, and the feeling was only enhanced tenfold when memories of days on end spent on places exactly like that flashed before her closed eyes.

     She had been to hospitals before and it was always hard. Years had passed and it was still quite troublesome. But she didn't back down. Even though she had wanted to turn on her heels, head back to the exit and wait for Sherlock by the car, she did what she had always done; she toughened up and forced herself to keep going, one foot in front of the other, one step after another.

     It worked. Albeit awkwardly and quite uncomfortably, Sophie made her way through the hospital's corridors. Her stance was stiff and her moves weren't as fluid as they normally were; there was something mechanical about the way she walked and it almost resembled a march. The whole of her body language had changed rather drastically, and it was very hard for someone as observant as Sherlock to miss it.

     Very hard indeed. Sherlock was still intrigued about the reason behind their very silent drive from Mycroft's place to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, and that strange behavior only added to his curiosity.

     Sophie's sudden uneasiness clearly had to do with hospitals, that much was very obvious, and as they proceeded with their walk, Sherlock's mind was in a whirl. Something had happened that caused Sophie to be wary of that particular environment, and something quite sensible he believed, but what?

_What?_

     As hard as it was for him to admit to such things—and he would never do it out loud—, that was a question Sherlock didn't know how to answer. At least _not yet_. He could have asked Sophie, but given the circumstances, or better still, their surroundings, chances of him getting an answer, whether it was an honest answer or not, were slim to none, so, even though he disliked not knowing, Sherlock held it back; he'd question her later, if he wasn't able to figure it out by himself.

     A few more steps and they turned into a long, narrow and empty corridor. If Sophie was paying a little bit more attention, she would have questioned Sherlock what on Earth were they doing there, for it seemed to be a part of the hospital reserved for staff only. But much like every other corridor she had walked through, that one was also awfully bright, with its overwhelming bright eggshell white walls, white floor and direct lightning, so she was hardly interested on limits and boundaries.

     The sound of hers and Sherlock's steps echoed through that cold and sterile passageway was not so slowly driving Sophie insane when they finally came to a halt. Or more so, Sherlock did, and Sophie followed suit a moment later.

     "Wait here," he half said, half ordered.

     Later on, Sophie would convince herself that it was the acoustic of the place that made Sherlock's already deep and grave voice sounded even deeper and graver, and her breath catch.

     For a brief moment, Sophie did as she was told. She merely watched when Sherlock turned his back to her and reached for the doorknob of one of the five similar white doors of said corridor. It was only a second later, when he took one step forward and into the room, that Sophie snapped out of her haze of white glares and painful memories, and after mentally scolding herself for that exhibition of a reproachful behaviour, followed after Sherlock.

–

As of late, life had been neither harsh nor overly kind to the forensic pathologist, Molly Hooper.

     Every day she would wake up at six in the morning, then, after taking care of her hygiene she would look after Toby's; change the litter, see if there was enough food and water, play with him for a little while her coffee wasn't ready. After breaking fast, she would shower, take the tube and get to work. Then, at night, things would vary. Some nights she would just stay inside, order some Chinese and watch some romance comedy on telly, or she would go out with some friends and dance a little, though that only came later...

     Pretty much every aspect of her life had remained a somewhat constant and she had developed a routine, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It wasn't. Not to Molly.

     It hadn't been always like that, her life. Surely she never had the most adventurous life, but this settling, this routine—it was something that she had only recently gotten used to. And that was okay. Really.

     It all started that one night.

     After a particularly long shift, Molly Hooper was more than ready to call it a day, take the tube and return to the comfort of her home. She was just finishing closing the lab when something startled her—or, to be more precise, someone.

     Sherlock Holmes. The infamous—and still insanely good looking—consulting detective.

     Molly could hardly believe it was actually happening when he reached out for help; _her_ help. And she did help him. How could she not? She had already come to terms that Sherlock wasn't interested on her like she had been since the day they met, but she still considered him a friend. She considered him a friend, even though he never really showed it to be something reciprocal—at least not until that night. But that was a matter of little significance to Molly. What really mattered was that Sherlock needed her help, and like she had told him before, if he ever needed her, he could have her, she would always be there for him…

     And she was. Living up to her promise, Molly helped Sherlock, even though she felt something braking inside her. Because she knew what it meant. That absurdly deranged plan his undoubtedly brilliant mind had concocted could only mean one thing and Molly knew precisely what that was. And she didn't like it.

     However, her feelings towards such things were irrelevant. There wasn't another way, not this time. The alternative was even worse than his plan, so she put on a brave face and did what she could, and a little bit of what she couldn't, to help him. After all, that's what friends do.

     But even though she was aware of Sherlock's plan, it still hit her hard when she read it on the papers…

_'SUPER SLEUTH IS DEAD'_

_'SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS'_

_'Fraudulent detective takes his own life'_

     Molly had never felt more enraged and more heartbroken. Sherlock's death was the only thing everyone seemed to talk about, and she hated it. Although she didn't know every single detail about it and how he'd done it, she knew Sherlock hadn't taken his own life. She also knew that the papers were selling lies, but she hated every second of every day in which she would have to wake up and see all that nonsense all over the news. So she did the only thing she could think of: she focused on all the other things she had in her life. That's how she got into her every-day routine.

     It was better to keep to herself rather than to get out there and see and hear all those lies over and over again. And she couldn't even tell them that they were wrong, that Sherlock was a good man, that he didn't take his own life because everyone had learnt about Richard Brook and all of his schemes and couldn't take it. So, with a little effort, Molly slipped her mind away from all that nonsense, shrunk into herself and simply minded her own business.

     And mind her business she did, for month after month after month. It's been quite a while, and she had come to accept the fact that she might never see her brilliant friend again. And part of her didn't mind it all that much, because even though he was no longer present in her life like before, at least she knew he was all right. But there was the other part; the part that was a bit more selfish and wished that he would come back. Not so that they would be together as she had hoped for quite a long time, no; just so that they could get back to that easy coexistence where he would, without really knowing, try to make the world a better place and she would assist him in any way she could, more often than not, simply observing him from afar...

     Some days, Molly could easily get through with only her work at Barts and her affairs at home, friends and colleagues and Toby. Some days she missed that faint sound of his Belstaff coat as it rustled softly in compass with his march, the way he would show up when she was in the middle of something, asking for something for an experiment or to see a body for a case. Some days, she missed Sherlock Holmes.

     Looking at her own reflection on the slim mirror of the locker room, Molly let out a low sigh. Today seemed to be one of those days.

     Trying not to let her mind get too caught up with remembrances of her friend, the petite MLA shook her head and proceeded to unbutton her lab coat. It had been a long day, and she would have left earlier if a body hadn't been transferred to their morgue.

     Except it wasn't any body. It was the body of Ronald Adair, and if they had sent it to Barts was probably because the Scotland Yard was still working on the case, or else it would have been released to the family so they could arrange and prepare the funeral and everything else.

     And it was because of that thought—the one that the Scotland Yard was still investigating the mysterious death of Mr Adair—that Molly found herself thinking about the youngest Holmes. She wondered if he would have liked to solve that case, with all those mysteries surrounding the young man's death. He probably would.

     Biting on her lips to both try to hold back a sad and small smile, Molly Hooper shrugged off the lab coat. She was far too busy neatly folding the soft piece of clothing and a feeling bit sentimental that she barely noticed when someone had opened the door to the locker room. It was only when she heard distinct sound of heels clicking against the linoleum floor that Molly stopped what she was doing and glanced over her shoulder out of curiosity. Curiosity that was instantly replaced by the most genuine surprise.

     Molly's eyes widened, her jaw dropped open and her lab coat ended on the floor when her eyes landed on the tall, dark figure that had just stepped into the tiny room.

     Standing there, barely two metres away from her, was no one other than the very man she had been thinking about. Sherlock Holmes. And when he spoke, he sounded just the same.

     "Hello, Molly."

     She tried to say something, anything really, but that was an attempt that did not exactly succeed. She didn't mean to, but instead of saying something very simple like "hi", Molly let out a low—and quite embarrassing—whimper.

     She shut her eyes closed and bit on her lower lip. For a split second, Molly wished none of that had happened, that she had simply imagined that Sherlock was back and she had just made a fool of herself; but the very next moment, she dismissed all that and hoped Sherlock being there hadn't been a product of her imagination.

    She opened her eyes and he was still there. He didn't dress like he used to, but it was definitely him, definitely–

     "Sherlock." Her voice wasn't louder than a whisper, but after making a pretty good impersonation of a baby whimpering, that was hardly something that concerned Molly.

     Just when she was thinking she wouldn't be seeing that man again, he shows up on her work place like it was any other day and nothing had happened. And just like any other day, he was there for a reason.

     "Yes. Nice to see you're still here, Molly," said Sherlock, casually as ever. "I believe you received Mr Adair's body today, right?"

     "Yea– Hmm... Yes," Molly replied after a couple of seconds. Her voice failed her a little bit, but she shook her head and got a hold of herself. "We did, I put it on the–"

     "Good. Great. Could you wheel it out? Need to examine the body."

     Molly was already quite dumbstruck, but somehow, she managed to look even more surprised. "Examine the... body? Are you–"

     "Working on the case, yes," he said, only confirming what she was about to ask. "So. Please?"

     In all honesty, he didn't even have to ask twice, nor say please. She would have done it no matter what. It was that good to have him back.

–

Less than five minutes later, they were all standing right next to a black body bag that Molly had taken out of one of the fridges.

     "Pretty horrid," she commented when while Sherlock donned his gloves.

     She had already seen the body when it arrived a little over two hours ago, and even though she'd been working with dead bodies for quite some time now, seeing that corpse had made her stomach turn into knots.

     "He looked so young," Molly added when her eyes took in the man's features.

     "That's because he was," Sherlock said absently as he leaned forward so he could examine it more closely and intently.

     Biting on her lower lip, Molly reminded herself that she was quite happy that he was back, and tried to remind herself that that was Sherlock. Very little tact and manners...

     Then, silence settled as the consulting detective worked. His nimble fingers feeling, pressing, moving, brushing as his oceanic blue eyes wore this far-away expression; he squinted and frowned a little every now and then and it indicated how concentrated he was.

     It was only after a few moments that Molly noticed the young brunette standing, a couple steps away from the autopsy desk, eyes fixed on Sherlock as he moved about. She didn't remember seeing the woman before and briefly wondered if she had been there all this time.

     "Uh– sorry," Molly began, trying her best not to sound rude. "But... who are you?"

     She watched when the woman on the background blinked a couple of times and looked back at her. Dark eyes met hazel ones and just when the woman was to answer Molly's question, Sherlock's voice filled the room.

     "Detective Inspector Hunter," he announced, making DI Hunter glare at him and Molly frown in curiosity. "Scotland Yard," he added as he carefully inspected the late Mr Adair's fingers.

     "I could have answered that myself, thank you very much," retorted Hunter a somewhat harshly and quite sarcastically, though when she turned to look at Molly again, she offered her a small smile that was devoid of all those characteristics.

     "Oh. I thought Detective Inspector Lestrade was– well, in charge of the investigation..."

     "Oh, he is," said the Scotland Yard detective with a short nod. "I'm merely assisting. The only thing I am in charge of is _him_."

     It was clear as day that by 'him', she had meant Sherlock. And if Molly knew, it was only obvious that Sherlock also knew. He almost instantly stopped squinting and sniffing and feeling and stood straight.

     For a brief moment, Molly—and probably DI Hunter as well—believed he was going to make a remark about what they were talking, but he did not.

     "I was right," Sherlock stated simply. "Not that I was expecting to be wrong, but now I'm one hundred per cent sure. The man we're after is Sebastian Moran."

     The young detective arched both eyebrows and shifted her weight from one leg to the other. "You don't say." The sarcasm in her voice was almost tangible.

     "I called that less than an hour ago," she added, more than slightly exasperated. Then, something occurred to her. "And, if I recall correctly, so did you. So, what are we doing here?"

     "We're here because I needed to _see_ the body."

     "All right. And seen the body you already have. Any conclusions?"

     "Almost. I've narrowed the possibilities to two, perhaps three... What was Adair doing prior his death? Was he working on anything?"

     "We, uh– we found a notebook with names of clubs and club friends along with some numbers so we believe he was trying to make out his–"

     "Losses or winnings at cards," Sherlock finished absently. Both Molly and the DI stared at him with curious eyes. "Of course... The Scotland Yard took the notebook as evidence, right?" It sounded like a question, but Sherlock didn't wait for an answer; he simply carried on with his ramblings as he disposed of the gloves. "I need to see that notebook."

     "What? Why?" Judging by the frown on Hunter's face, Molly wasn't the only one who had missed something.

     "Data," he said simply as he discarded the latex gloves and made it to the doors.

     "Data," echoed the brunette detective; there was tiredness in her voice and in the way she let out a sigh as she reached for something in her coat pocket. "Wait, where are you going?"

     "Scotland Yard," he said quite abruptly and very matter-of-factly. "I just said I need to see that notebook."

     "Yes, but I have it here."

     Sherlock was only one step away from the double doors and had already reached out to push them open when he heard those six little words. He stopped dead on his tracks.

     The impatience that had been very noticeable in his words mere seconds ago seemed to vanish. Turning on his heels, he regarded the young detective with expectant eyes. "You what?"

     "I have it here," she echoed her own words as she closed the space between her and Sherlock. "Well, I have the list that is... we were using it to narrow down our list of suspects."

     "Oh. Nice," Sherlock said simply as he took the folded piece of paper DI Hunter handed him.

     He didn't take one minute reading and examining the paper, but during those brief moments he was fully engrossed with whatever list he had been given, Molly glanced at the woman standing right in front of him.

     She still didn't know Detective Inspector Hunter's first name. In fact, Molly didn't know much about her except that she was a detective. And even that, if she hadn't been told, Molly didn't think she would have guessed. Hunter seemed quite young, perhaps around her late twenties, early thirties, but at the same time, there was something about her that suggested she had been through more than enough.

     _Maybe it was her eyes,_ Molly thought to herself. Hunter had these piercing dark eyes that resembled two round pieces of onyx, and even though she smiled, those eyes held some intensity that couldn't be missed. It was almost… intimidating.

     Then, almost as if she could hear what Molly had been thinking, the brunette DI turned her head, looking away from Sherlock, and their eyes met.

     Molly instantly pursed her lips together and blinked a couple of times as she averted her eyes. She felt silly and quite embarrassed; she had just been caught staring, but still, something made her raise her head again.

     Those deep, dark eyes were still there, still looking at her.

     This time, Molly didn't look away. She took a breath and held eye contact. It lasted only a brief second, but as she looked into those deep dark eyes, Molly thought she caught a glimpse of something else. There was more to that darkness than that first strong impression let out. It was as if she had seen things; things she didn't like, things she wished she hadn't seen...

     Later on, Molly wondered if she hadn't just imagined all that; she wondered if she hadn't projected something she had wanted to see and her brain led her to believe she had seen it, but for a moment, as the three of them stood in that silent morgue, Molly Hooper believed she had caught a glimpse of the woman beneath the Detective Inspector, a woman who was bearing a heavy weight upon her shoulders. During that brief moment, Molly felt sympathetic towards her instead of intimidated.

     "Excellent!" Sherlock cried; disrupting the silence and almost making Molly jump.

     She shifted her eyes back to the man and the first thing she noticed were his eyes. His blue eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm and the corners of his lips were slightly curled up for a small smile was appearing; even though she had moved on, Molly still felt a light pang of jealousy for not being the one he was addressing to.

     "What is?" Hunter queried.

     Molly looked back at the brunette, and once again, all she saw was the Detective Inspector. Strict and strong. Perhaps she had imagined everything...

     "This," Sherlock said, raising the piece of paper he'd been inspecting. And when he spoke again, there was a bit of pompousness in his voice. "I know why Ronald Adair died... or perhaps I should say why Moran killed him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with (I wish I was, though). No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> This story has not been Beta read and because English isn't my first language, I apologise in advance for any mistakes you might find here.

** Chapter Sixteen **

 

"So, will you tell me what do you mean when you say you know the reason why Moran killed Adair at some point or what?"

     Sophie glanced at Sherlock, who had been sitting beside her for a few moments now and had not yet explained how he figured that out. In fact, he hadn't uttered one word since they left Barts a few minutes ago.

     While she was glad that they didn't have to spend too much time in that hospital, the silence that had settled between them was quite unsettling.

     "Holmes?" Sophie tried calling him, but it was like talking to a brick wall.

     Sherlock was clearly too much absorbed with his own thoughts and musings to say anything, not even a word to let Sophie know he had acknowledged her questions. Which, by the way, she firmly believed he had not.

     With a frustrated sigh, Sophie shook her head and tried to ignore Sherlock's presence there. Thoughts of Graham and the piece of evidence she had asked him to run analysis instantly invaded her mind and she clung on to that, not only because it was convenient, but also because she was still expecting to hearing from him.

     She hoped that Graham would be able to get a decent DNA sample to run analysis, but more than that, she knew that even if he had a match, the cigarette end wouldn't be more than circumstantial evidence. Any decent lawyer would be able to dismiss it if they didn't find something more definite to support the case, and odds were that Sebastian Moran wouldn't have a mediocre lawyer. Not even a decent one. He would probably have the best.

     To think that they could already have that _'something more definite'_ , if only Sherlock would share whatever it was that he had picked up from his flash examination of the body...

     Sophie's eyes darted to the man beside her and he hadn't moved one muscle. He still sat there with the knuckles of his left hand touching his lips and his eyes fixed ahead; but he had this distant look on his face that told Sophie he wasn't particularly interested in anything else but what was going on inside his mind.

     She took a deep breath and had to try really hard not to shake her head once more.

     "Think that I actually believed I would never have to work with a Holmes again..." The brunette detective ran her right hand through her hair and tilted her head to the same side as she steered the Jaguar through the streets of London.

     It was strange to drive someone else's sedan when she was used to driving her utility vehicle everywhere. She was just wondering if John had had too much trouble with her car when the sound of her phone ringing disturbed the silence.

     Reaching for her phone in her pocket, Sophie didn't even bother checking the screen to see whoever was calling her; she simply pressed answer and brought the phone to her ear.

     "Hunter."

_"Sophie, it's Graham."_ He needed not have said that; she had recognised his voice the moment he said her name.

     "Oh, thank God it's you," she said, truly glad that he had called. "Please tell me you have something..."

_"I do have something. I analyzed the cigarette end you gave me. Now, I didn't get any fingerprints from it, not even a partial one, which is something that would have intrigued me if the circumstances were different..."_

     "Graham." She really didn't want to, but Sophie had to interrupt him. He was missing the point and she wanted him to be objective.

_"But I did get a DNA sample,"_ he added quickly. _"And I did as you asked and compared it to the Armed Forces records. There was one match."_

     When he said those last four words, Graham's voice had acquired a grave tone, and even though they were speaking through the phone, Sophie had more than enough reasons to believe it had affected his mood as well, but she couldn't afford to worry about that. Not really.

     "Well?!"

_"Colonel Sebastian Moran."_

     Sophie let out a breath she didn't really know she was holding. After that, she fell silent.

     It was hardly something she didn't know. On the contrary actually. Sophie had been pretty confident that, if they ever managed to extract a decent DNA sample from that little piece of paper that involved the cigarette filter, and crossed it with the right database, she would get a hit. And she was about ninety per cent sure of whose name would come up. But still, when she heard that, she thought about what Sherlock had affirmed back in the morgue. _Colonel Sebastian Moran..._

     The man's name kept echoing in her mind for a couple of seconds, and much like Sherlock had ignored all of her attempts to establish a communication, during those couple of seconds, Sophie didn't acknowledge any word that Graham was saying on the other end of the phone; there was only one thing she could think about and it was that she could not let him get away with this. She _would not_ let him get away with this. Not this time.

–

Series of images and possibilities flickered across Sherlock's eyes as he went through everything he had learnt about the murder of Ronald Adair since he got back to London, which happened roughly a couple of hours ago.

     A couple of hours and he had already figured it all out, solved the "mystery" while the Metropolitan Police was still on the process of finding and eliminating suspects. Some things never change. _Some things_...

     Taking a long deep breath, Sherlock glanced at the woman sitting beside him.

     Now, Sherlock Holmes was not known for making exceptions solely because an exception disproves the rule. And still, there he was. Or better yet, there _she_ was; even though there was no rule that firmly stated that all Detectives Inspectors were slow and ill equipped when it came to skills and abilities that were pertinent to actual detective work which often led them to make erroneous assumptions or jumping to wrong conclusions, DI Hunter had made her way through the case quite swiftly and figured out who the killer was. Sure, she still had yet to figure out what had happened that led Moran to commit such crime, but still, he had yet to meet a DI who was that shrewd and clever.

     But then again, Miss Hunter didn't seem to fit into the same category of the vast majority of detectives inspectors from the New Scotland Yard, and she had quite the advantage upon them all. She also proved to be a much more intriguing mystery and a more intricate challenge than the one of Park Lane. Abandoning what would certainly be a promising career on the British Secret Service, the evident aversion for hospitals... and what was it that she had just said? That she didn't think she'd ever with a Holmes again?

     He wasn't paying too much attention to Sophie, but those few words were hardly something he could ignore. Sherlock knew she and Mycroft had been professionally involved, in the past but she did say, and she used these exact same words, that she actually believed she would never have to work with a Holmes again.

     What was that supposed to mean, _‘with’_? It surely couldn't be–

     But whatever thoughts or assumptions he was thinking about or working on in his mind were brusquely interrupted when he caught a glimpse of her face.

     From the moment her phone rang and she answered it, the whole of Sophie's expression changed. She went from annoyed to concentrated in a heartbeat, and that change combined with hearing only one side of that conversation had already made Sherlock a bit curious. He had gathered that, whatever subjects they were discussing, it had to do with the case, and the man on the other end, Graham, should be a tech lab or something like it, if her need for answers were anything to go by. So she had found something that needed to be analysed. Now that was interesting, although it was not what made Sherlock shift on his seat so he was facing the brunette detective.

     What triggered such reaction from him was that Sophie had ended the phone with a simple yet very serious _"on my way"_ and, after tossing her phone onto the dashboard, increased the speed of the vehicle.

     "What happened?" queried Sherlock, and he was genuinely interested in knowing what Sophie and Graham were talking about. It seemed important judging by her reaction.

     She didn't answer him right away, though. If anything, it looked like she wasn't even listening to him for she kept mumbling "come on" repeatedly as she steered the vehicle through the traffic.

     Sherlock was about to argue with her that she had been the one who had stated that she already knew who was the responsible so why would the report from a tech be that important when Sophie's voice filled the interior of the car once more.

     "Earlier today, after we _met_ at Park Lane, John and I, with the assistance of a tech and Lestrade, were able to pinpoint the exact location where the shot that killed Adair came from. Moran stood on the rooftop of a building across the street, where he had the perfect view into Ronald Adair's sitting room thanks to the three windows...

     "Lestrade had a team processing the place, but it rained last night and the sniper was obviously wearing gloves so they didn't find any evidence that could prove it was Moran on the top of the building."

     "But you did," Sherlock said blankly when Sophie made a quick pause and expertly manoeuvred the Jaguar through a particularly crowded street.

     She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye when they drove past the worst of the traffic. There was something about the way her dark eyes gazed him, though he couldn't name what was...

     "I noticed a small pile of dirt near the edge," she continued, returning her gaze to the streets. "It didn't seem anything important, only some dirt that had accumulated there, but a closer look told me a different story. It wasn't _just dirt_ ; it was ashes."

     Sherlock knit his eyebrows together when he heard that last affirmation. Because she did affirm it. "Ashes?" he asked dubiously.

     "Cigarette ashes," she corrected herself, still keeping her eyes straight ahead. "But yes. However, because of the bad weather from the night before, most of it was tampered and I couldn't identify what was the brand... I thought it could be ashes of a _Sobranie_ or perhaps a _Treasurer_ , but I couldn't tell for sure. All I knew was that the sniper had quite the expensive taste, and it should count for–"

     "Wait a minute," Sherlock interrupted her abruptly. "How did you know all this? That the pile of dirt you found were ashes of cigarette?"

     "Well, I read your blog."

     "You read my blog?"

     "Yes, I did. You made a post a while ago, Analysis of Tobacco Ash? I read that before you deleted. Why did you delete it anyway?"

     Sophie glanced at him once more and, even though she had asked him a question, he did not answer. _She had read his blog?_ Well, that was a bit surprising and Sherlock hadn't really anticipated that one.

     "You know what, that doesn't matter." Sophie shook her head and averted his eyes from him once more. "What really matters is that I learnt something that could be quite valuable regarding the killer, and then... then I found the cigarette end."

     A cigarette end? "That doesn't seem like something Moran would do," Sherlock countered. "He's too organised, too careful to have left a cigarette end behind..."

     He was studying the woman's profile and noticed when a small smirk pulled at the corners of her lip. "I thought so too," she admitted. "But the cigarette end wasn't in plain sight. It was partially hidden by some pipes that followed the length of the rooftop ledge."

     "So, he simply left it there? He didn't see it?" It was evident that Sherlock wasn't convinced, but what did he want to hear? Did he want a long, logical and analytical explanation regarding what had transpired on that rooftop? What was he expecting her to say? She didn't have the answer to those questions! If there should be anyone working of deducing what had happened, that someone was Sherlock Holmes, not Sophie Hunter. He was the genius, and he was the one who wanted to know those complicated matters.

     Sophie sighed. "I don't know, okay? All I know is that it was there and I found it," she firmly stated, and before he could come up with whatever questions, she continued saying, "and I took it to Graham so that he could analyse it, which he did and he just called me with a positive match."

     "Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said flatly.

     "The one and only," Sophie agreed with a nod.

     "Right, but that doesn't explain why it's so important," retorted Sherlock. "We already knew that."

     Ever so slowly, Sophie turned her head so she was staring at Sherlock; the look on her face was unreadable.

     "Well, that's exactly the point," she said after a moment. There were hints of annoyance in her tone, though Sherlock could hardly understand why. " _We_ know that. Not anyone else. And I am a detective inspector, not a consultant detective, if you don't remember. It is part of my job to provide evidence rather than just tell people that someone did something... anyone can say anything, it doesn't necessarily make things true. We need evidence to sustain the case and prove what happened when it's taken to court. And it is that little remnant of the Treasurer Luxury Black that puts Moran on that rooftop, two to three hundred metres from the crime scene, which makes him a person of interest."

     It was Sherlock's turn to sigh. "He's not a _person of interest_. He is the murderer."

     Sophie tightened her grip around the steering wheel.

     "Oh, hell– _I_ know that," she said, and she sounded a bit too harsh. She was obviously growing impatient. "And _you_ know that. But I still need to _prove_ it. Why? Why the hell would he kill Ronald Adair? What is the motive? You may know it, but I don't, and I _need_ the bloody motive. And the stupid murder weapon!"

     Seconds stretched into minutes and for a couple of them, silence prevailed inside the black Jaguar as Sherlock carefully studied Sophie. Her jaw was clenched, her grip on the steering wheel was still too tight and there was some evident tension on her shoulders as well as on her neck—there was something too stiff about the way she sat there, staring ahead into the night; she was visibly distressed.

     A low sigh escaped Sherlock's lips. "As you already know," he began casually, "Moran worked for Moriarty. He was recruited by him shortly after he was obliged to retire from the Army and returned to London. Now, one thing you must have in mind about Moran is that he is very loyal, and after he left the military, his loyalty was directed to the man who took him in—Jim Moriarty.

     "Very quickly, Moran became Moriarty's right hand and took the position of his chief of staff as you mentioned earlier today, and then, his _services_ became requested solely for purposes of assassinations; more specifically, assassinations that required his peculiar skills with a rifle."

     Making a small pause, Sherlock glanced at Sophie, and while she seemed to be paying attention to every single word he was saying, she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the streets and the cars that were on their way.

     "During the years he worked for Moriarty," Sherlock proceeded, "Moran got accustomed to a certain lifestyle. He lived with great comfort and money was never a problem. However, when Moriarty killed himself up on that rooftop, Moran was left without employment.

     "He managed for a while, but soon enough it became evident that he would need to find another way of living, so he started to play cards at several clubs in London."

     "The Bagatelle Club," said Sophie absently, speaking for the very first time since her mini outburst, which was followed by that long speech from Sherlock.

     "The Bagatelle Club," repeated Sherlock with a nod.

     "Adair played cards with Moran at the Bagatelle," Sophie thought out loud. "Hold on. Are you suggesting that–"

     "That Adair noticed that Moran was cheating? It is not a suggestion," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "Adair found out about Moran's schemes and threatened to expose him, which led to–"

     "To him being murdered–"

     "With a modified rifle."

     Blue eyes met dark ones and Sherlock felt a little bit of pleasure when he noticed how Sophie's eyes seemed to glow now that she knew what he knew. The look in her eyes was something akin to admiration; it was almost like the way John would look at him whenever they solved a case or a lead. Almost.

     "That– that is..."

     But whatever Sophie thought _that was_ , Sherlock did not get to know for she never finished that sentence.

     Instead, she reached for her phone that somewhere on the dashboard of the Jaguar and, breaking some rules regarding the use of mobile phones whilst driving, she composed a text that Sherlock couldn't see.

     Next, she made an abrupt turn and Sherlock instinctively reached out and planted his hand on the window, avoiding his head to collide with the cold glass.

     He let out a heavy sigh and shut his eyes closed as he did so. Sure, the woman was a pretty good driver, but honestly. Though Sherlock didn't make any comments about that because when he opened his eyes again, he recognised the neighbourhood and he had a fairly decent idea where she was heading to. And it was _not_ the New Scotland Yard.

     "What are we doing here?" He questioned when she made yet another turn, though less abrupt this time. "I thought we were going to meet with that tech..."

     "You are not entirely wrong," Sophie said as they drove through a familiar street. "I am going to meet with that tech while you... you are going to talk to John."

     The question rolled out of Sherlock's mouth before he could even think about asking it. "What?!"

     A conversation with John was something Sherlock had already anticipated, not only because Sophie had told him he'd have to do exactly that when they left Mycroft's place, but because Sherlock knew he had to do it. John had been a constant presence in his life and Sherlock really appreciated his friendship, so he didn't want to keep deceiving his friend—the only friend he ever had.

     But there was a reason why he had to lie to John in the first place; a few reasons to be more precise, and Sebastian Moran happened to be one of those reasons. The last one he still needed to deal with. But Sophie didn't know that.

     "You heard me," she said flatly as she parked the Jaguar a few metres from 221B. She kept the engine running, though. "You are going to go talk to John while I go work on solving the case."

     "But you need me to close this case," he stated. And it was true. He knew it was true and she knew it as well, but it didn't seem to make any difference to Sophie.

     "You're right," she admitted, and she was being very honest. "I probably need you. But right now, I need you to go talk to John. Because I will _not_ continue to drive round London with you on the passenger seat while John is out there, believing you are dead." She unlocked the doors. "I may have been dragged into this, gotten myself into this situation, but I refuse to keep prolonging it any further."

     Sophie unceremoniously placed her hand right next to Sherlock's thigh before stretching herself across the passenger seat to open his door.

     But Sherlock didn't leave. Instead, he watched as she removed herself from his space and returned to her seat. When she was seated again, their eyes locked.

     Even though he hardly knew Sophie Hunter, his brother trusted her—quite a lot, actually—and while it didn't look like it, Sherlock appreciated Mycroft and if he trusted and valued Sophie Hunter that much, well, that counted for something. Besides, up until now, she proved to be a decent DI, better than most to be honest. Not to mention she was clearly affected by feelings and emotions...

     "Look, you were right," said Sherlock after a couple of seconds. "I did what I had to do to protect my friends," he added when he noticed the confusion that flashed before Sophie's eyes. "That day, when I confronted Moriarty, he told me he had hired people to kill Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and John. So, it was either me or my friends. But I had already figured it out because he told me. So, I did what I had to do. To protect them. And that's what I've been doing. All this time I've been away, I was after Moriarty's associates. I found the men Moriarty hired to kill Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, and they responded for their crimes... But there's still one thing I have to do. One person I have to get to."

     "Sebastian Moran."

     Sophie's voice was soft when she said it. Understandable. And the look in her eyes was unmistakable. She knew without him saying that Moran was the man that Moriarty had assigned to take John's life in case Sherlock didn't die. She knew what kind of people Moriarty and his associates were and what they were capable of. There was a mutual and silent understanding between them, so Sherlock simply nodded.

     "I told you I'd talk to John and I will. But this is not the time."

     Sherlock sounded measured and quite stern, but there was a certain level of reasoning in his voice, something that was never there.

     He was still far from being sentimental, but there was any other way to do that, to reason with DI Hunter. Because Moran was still out there and Sherlock wasn't dead. What would the man do when he finally learnt that Moriarty's schemes had failed? Would he come after John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade? Sherlock believed he would and he believed he could stop him. More than that, he _knew_ , if there was anyone who could catch Sebastian Moran, that person was him, Sherlock Holmes. But to do that he couldn't have the police on the way, and he certainly couldn't have someone telling him what he should or should not do, regardless of how said someone had been helpful. And helpful she had been, that's why he needed to convince Sophie to let go of that idea. Because he knew they could get Moran faster and within legal parameters–whatever that meant.

     "You're concerned about your friend, I understand that," she said and Sherlock was already feeling as if he had won that battle. However, the very next thing he heard was Sophie adding, "but I did say sooner rather than later, and it is already later."

     No. She did not understand.

     Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but was didn't say anything when he noticed Sophie had released his seatbelt and was all but pushing him out of the car.

    "You have been sauntering about like this Norwegian tourist for I don't even know how long, invaded a crime scene, paid a visit to your brother, been to that morgue where you clearly already knew that lab assistant, Miss Hooper, so I don't even care. I already indulged you far too much. You are talking to John right now. Off out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter didn't come out exactly like I expected and I'm not entirely pleased with it... I'm also not sure I got anyone too out of character here, but I hope I didn't as I hope this chapter wasn't very disappointing and, well, I do hope you enjoyed it, even if just a little bit. So, leave a comment, please?
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with (I wish I was, though). No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> This story has not been Beta read and because English isn't my first language, I apologise in advance for any mistakes you might find here.

** Chapter Seventeen **

 

There, in the middle of his old living room, Sherlock Holmes stood.

     In spite of his valid and very reasonable arguments—because he did try to reason and argue with Sophie—, Sherlock still made it back to Baker Street. Or more so, he was left there.

     Turns out he may have taken her for granted. Sophie Hunter. That detective inspector didn't even listen to what he had to say, and while it annoyed him to no end, Sherlock also found that to be slightly amusing. She had quite the attitude, he'd give her that, and maybe—just maybe—it would be interesting to have her around. Because she clearly would be around, considering the fact that she lived right across the street...

     But as he stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his suit, the matter of Sophie Hunter had grown quite insignificant and something else had taken hold of his thoughts. _John_.

     Even though he had already been to 221B that day, seen all the boxes and dust; even though Mycroft had told him, after Sophie stormed out of his place and before they drove off to Bart's, that John had moved on with his life, Sherlock had yet to wrap his mind around the idea of John _moving on with his life_.

     The John Watson he'd met wouldn't have made that transition so smoothly. But then again, the John Watson he'd met didn't exist anymore. He had stopped existing for quite some time. Ever since their first case, actually. The Study in Pink.

     A ghost of a smile appeared on Sherlock's solemn countenance. Even though he wasn't a sentimental person, the events of that night replayed in his mind.

     John had proved to be a valuable asset by the time. And repeatedly, throughout the years they had worked together... Even though he had grown used to do things alone, Sherlock found quite easy to adjust his life in order to fit John into it. His professional life and his personal life also; took some getting used to, but it was all fairly easy. They weren't very similar, but John was a man of quiet habits, much like Sherlock, and he was very accepting. Since they met, John never did what Sherlock expected him to do — unlike most people, John didn't treat him with contempt. Not that he cared about people's opinion, he definitely didn't. But it was nice for a change; not having people completely dismissing whatever he had to say only because they were complete idiots and unable to notice it themselves.

     So, perhaps John wouldn't mind all that much his absence. Perhaps, unlike Sophie so obviously believed, John would accept his return. Maybe he would be happy for it, even. Yes. That seemed very likely, considering it was John he was talking about.

     With that thought in mind, Sherlock smoothed some inexistent wrinkles on his white dress shirt and jacket of his well tailored suit before grabbing his Belstaff coat and heading towards the door.

     However, the moment he set foot outside and his eyes landed on the dark utility vehicle across the street, an unpleasant sensation invaded Sherlock, making his stomach turn and his throat feel dry.

     Taking a deep breath, he reached into the pocket of his tailored pants and pulled a squared packet. Nicotine patch. He had been relying on those to help him think for quite some time now, and even though he wasn't technically working on a case at the moment, Sherlock had a task at hand, and while he was confident about what he was about to do, he felt the need for the sweet release that the substance would provide. However mild and quick it should be.

    Sherlock rolled back his left shirt-cuff, exposing his taut, sinewy forearm. His eyes rested upon his limb and a thoughtful look adorned his features, as if he was considering the side effects... But whatever considerations he made, they didn't last long; after some brief seconds, his slender fingers cut open the patch packet just before applying it to his fair skin. He repeated the action one more time before running his hand upon the two circles that were plastered to his forearm.

     He felt a discharge fuelling his system almost instantly. And even though Sherlock knew this newfound sense of satisfaction he was currently experiencing was only the result of endorphins produced by his brain, he rolled his sleeve down, adjusted his coat, and with long and determined strides, made his way to Number 220.

.

It was a rather pleasant place, Sherlock would admit to that. Classical decor, sober colour on the walls, Sophie's flat was everything he had figured it would be; however, there were things and touches here and there that did not seem like her. For example, the colorful cushions on the two armchairs, the knit throw that lay partially folded over the left arm of the sofa, some of the paintings on the walls, the fashion magazines on the coffee table were some of the things Sherlock noticed just by glancing around. There was also the orange coat that was hanging behind the door along with a pink-ish scarf. Those were not Sophie's. No. They clearly belonged to her flat mate.

     And then, there was the dog.

     Sitting right in the middle of the living room was a medium-sized, brown and white dog. Most unexpected, considering he had not foreseen the fact that Sophie had a dog, but he could manage.

     He wasn't an expert when it came to dogs and breeds, but he knew that wasn't a pure breed dog, just like he knew the dog did not belong to Sophie or her flat mate. The left corner of his lip turned up. He hadn't anticipated the dog because there wasn't a dog for him to anticipate.

     The dog let out a low grown as he made his way towards Sherlock. There was a little tension in both Sherlock and the dog, but it quickly dissipated when the canine let out a soft cry; apparently, he picked a scent he recognised — Sophie's. Squatting on his haunches, Sherlock let the dog sniff his hand.

     "A sniffer dog," he said as the mongrel kept on sniffing him. "Hello..." Sherlock scratched the dog between his ears before reaching for the tag. Tilting his head to the side, he read the name on it. "Toby. Good dog, Toby... Now, where is John?" Toby barked and Sherlock couldn't help but arch an eyebrow. "Do you know John?"

     Toby let out a soft cry before turning his back to Sherlock and returning to his guarding spot by the sofa. Standing up, Sherlock straightened his coat.

     John had clearly been there, since Sophie's vehicle was there and she was driving one of Mycroft's. He must have taken the Freelander 2 to her address, and knowing John like Sherlock did, he probably started to chat with Sophie's flat mate... But where was he now?

     Looking around, Sherlock inspected the room with a little extra care. He noticed the two wine glasses on the kitchen sink and knew he had obviously been right about John and Sophie's flat mate getting friendly. He also noticed the car keys lying on the dining table, but it was only when he turned round and let his eyes wander through the living room once more that he noticed the squared piece of paper.

     He reached out and took it in his hands. It was a message, composed by Sophie's flat mate, judging by the delicate handwriting. It read:

_Sophie,_

_Went out with John for dinner. Will try to bring some fish and chips for you; however I don't remember it being on the Ravenna's menu._

_Mary._

     So, Sophie's flat mate was named Mary and she and John went out for dinner. An Italian restaurant named Ravenna. Well, that was everything Sherlock needed to know.

—

"No, seriously, what are we doing here?"

     Glancing out of the corner of her eye, Sophie couldn't not notice that Lestrade not only sounded stressed, but he also seemed quite on edge. She really couldn't blame him, though.

     "What am **_I_** doing **_here_**?" He asked as they continued their way through the building.

     "Is that a rhetorical question?"

     "I was just hoping you'd say I was wrong," Lestrade said with a shook of his head.

     A small, mirthless smile appeared on Sophie's face. "Sorry to disappoint," she said, her voice soft and measured as they made a turn to the left and followed the narrow path of the corridor.

     Much to Sophie's surprise, the MOD building in Whitehall was quite empty. Surely, there were some people here and there going about their business, but she just thought there would be more employees on the place. You know, considering she had been summoned by no one less than Mycroft Holmes. Also, Lestrade had been called as well. But then again, maybe Mycroft did want to keep things quiet for as long as it was possible.

     Lestrade let out an unintelligible grunt which Sophie didn't get the chance to ask what exactly did he say because, at that precise moment, they reached their destination.

     She knocked on the black door twice; they didn't have to wait any longer. Almost instantly, the door was open and Mycroft Holmes stood statuesquely before them.

     "Glad you two made it in such short notice," he said blankly, and before Sophie could make any witty remarks regarding the statement, he stepped aside and gestured towards the inside of the office. "Please, do come in."

     Sophie was the first to enter the office, soon followed by Lestrade. She looked around, taking in the place. It was painted in a sober dark shade of grey and mostly functional.

     There was a fairly big desk opposite to the door; a telephone lay on one side, a lamp on the other and lots of papers and envelopes in the middle—not unusual considering that they were currently at the Ministry of Defence. There was also a black leather, high-back office chair behind it, a single chair which was placed directly in front of the dark-wooden desk, a filling cabinet of sorts on the left corner of the room where a second lamp rest atop and that was about all the furnishing the room possessed. No unnecessary objects were filling in the vacant spots; however, a big—and rather bright—painting occupied most of the wall behind the desk. With its shades of yellow and ochre, mixed up with shades of dark grey with black and some other earthy hues, a copy of the portrait of Elizabeth II by Italian painter Pietro Annigoni, was by far the most colorful object in the room, though that didn't say much, really. The ambient was all too... gloomy, and while Sophie would have liked to comment on that, she did not. Turning round to face Mycroft, her dark eyes met his blue ones and she fell silent. There was something about his demeanors that just didn't encourage her to do so.

     "So," Lestrade said gravely. His hands flew to his hips and he shifted about for a moment. "We're all here. What is the matter?"

     But Mycroft didn't provide him with an answer right away. No. Instead, he kept gazing at Sophie for some pretty long seconds until he finally asked, "How is your investigation going, detective inspector Lestrade?"

     The older Holmes blinked and shifted his attention from Sophie to the man standing right beside her.

     Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows softly and Sophie let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

     "Sorry. I may have not been very objective," Mycroft added; his voice soft and even as ever. "I was referring to the Park Lane investigation."

     Lestrade's eyes widened when he heard that. Clearly, he wasn't used to talking to Mycroft, let alone hearing him use the word _'sorry'_. Not that he was really sorry about anything; Sophie didn't think he was.

     "It's, uh–" Lestrade glanced at Sophie out of the corner of his eyes. She seemed calm and composed so he decided to just roll with it, after all, she knew Mycroft Holmes better than he did and if she was that collected, then things shouldn't be bad. Right? "It's progressing."

     "Is it? How close are you on getting the responsible for Adair's murder?"

     "Well, so far, our investigation led us to one suspect," Lestrade said, and Sophie was more than slightly surprised by his assertiveness. And she was quite surprised when he said, "Sebastian Moran."

     Her eyebrows rose, her eyes widened and Sophie had to work hard not to let her jaw drop. And when she glanced at Mycroft, she could tell, by the way he tilted his head to the side and softly arched his eyebrows, that he was equally surprised, although his way of showing it was more subtle and veiled.

     "How did you get to him?" She needed to ask. It wasn't like she didn't trust Lestrade or didn't think he was competent enough, because she trusted him and he was quite competent. She just needed to know.

     "You did," Lestrade said, turning to face the woman next to him. "Well, almost," he added when he saw the look of confusion in her eyes. "Remember when you called and asked me to talk to a man named Murray?" Sophie simply nodded. "Turns out Murray's alibi wasn't much of an alibi in the first place. He claimed he'd been to Dublin, spend the day there with a couple of friends... but I've been to the Cavendish earlier today, and when I spoke to one of Adair's card mates, he said he had been to a party, or a gathering, something like that. When I asked for names and numbers, guess whose name he provided?"

     "Murray."

     "Exactly. And even though he wasn't a real suspect, we checked Goddard's alibi and all the names he gave us and it checked. All of it, which means..."

     "Murray lied."

     Lestrade nodded. "Didn't take much to get him to contradict himself even further."

     "And Moran's alibi fell through." Sophie looked at Lestrade, a glint of admiration in her eyes that matched the small smile that was pulling at the corners of her lips. "That's great."

     "Yeah, but you don't half as surprised as I thought you'd be." Lestrade narrowed his eyes lightly. "How's that?"

     "Well..." Sophie began, but she wasn't the one who had answered. It was Mycroft.

     "That's because she already knew that," he stated blankly.

     But that was something Lestrade may have had anticipated because he simply let out a low sigh and nodded once.

     "And that is why I asked you to be here," Mycroft continued. Then, just as he made a small pause, someone knocked on the door, almost as if in cue.

     Sophie caught Lestrade's curious glance towards her, but before she could say anything, they heard the distinct click of the door being closed and someone else had joined them. Her dark eyes met the man's light blue ones and, if the circumstances were different, she would have enjoyed seeing him again a lot better.

     "Graham," she greeted him. Her voice solemn, much like the whole of her body language.

     Because even though Sophie had been summoned by Mycroft Holmes a few times in the past, this time, that queer gathering was making her feel quite nervous. Nearly as nervous as she had been when she first met Mr. Holmes.

     And her nervousness only spiked when Graham gave her a nod and muttered an equally grave, "Sophie" in response.

     Lestrade's eyes kept shifting between Sophie and the new addition to that "meeting", and before he could ask anything—because he was just about to—, Mycroft's voice filled the room.

     "Now, we are all here. This is Graham Mayfield," he said, answering the unspoken question that was very evident in Lestrade's eyes. "Works for the SIS Technology Department, but seems to possess a few other qualities and skills to work on other areas." There was a brief moment of silence where Sophie's eyes met Graham's and the two of them could feel Mycroft's gaze upon them. "And the reason why he's here," continued Holmes, as if nothing had transpired. "Is because he has some interesting and most valuable information regarding your case. Mr Mayfield..."

     All this time, Graham had his hands behind his back, but hearing his name, he took a tiny step forward; one of his arms came to rest next to his body while the other one reached out. He held a folder between his long, slim fingers. Sophie took it from him when Lestrade didn't do it himself.

     She opened it unceremoniously and, after a quick examination of the content, she passed it to Lestrade.

     "Earlier today, Sophie and I met," Graham began. "Upon the occasion, she requested that I took a cigarette-end she had found to the lab for analysis. And so I di—"

     "Wait, you what?" Lestrade wasn't not only reading the file, but also listening to what was being said, and that last bit snatched the whole of his attention.

     Raising his eyes from the papers, he looked at his fellow co-worker. His features were twisted in a look of curiosity mixed with hints of disbelief, and Sophie didn't have to be a detective to understand what lay in between the lines, what he wasn't saying.

     "I didn't withhold information or evidence from you," she explained quickly. "I just needed to speed things up a bit. I was going to tell you about it when we were called here."

     Whether Lestrade believed her or not, Sophie couldn't tell because he wasn't given the time to actually process what she had just said because one look from Mycroft had Graham speaking again.

     "I had the cigarette-end analysed and was able to extract some DNA from it. Still following Sophie's request, I cross-checked it with our database, the military database, and got one hit. Sebastian Moran. Served in the Army and had quite the reputation, until he was forced into an early retirement."

     "Right, hold on a second," interrupted Lestrade. "You said he was _forced_ into an early retirement. Doesn't say why here." He indicated the file he'd been reading.

     The Detective Inspector was expecting to hear an answer from Graham; but it wasn't Graham's voice he heard.

     "While in military service," said Mycroft. "Moran was tied to a series of very unfortunate events. And should said events had become known to the public, it could have ended up in an open scandal that would, not only cause trouble to him and to the other individuals that were part of it, but could and would lead to international complications. _Momentous_ international complications. So, in order to avoid said scandal and the consequences it would bring, Sebastian Moran along with a few other of his associates were forced into retirement."

     But Lestrade had stopped listening some few moments before Mycroft finished his explanation—although nothing was really explained—and was going through the information he had in his hands once again.

     "If this Moran is that bad of a character, then why didn't you get him before?" He questioned confused. "Why was he never imprisoned? Says here he has an address in... Conduit Street. What is he doing free? And how does this DNA sample connect him to Ronald Adair's death?"

     Honestly, there were so many questions that Lestrade wanted to ask. So many things about this case and this Sebastian Moran individual that he just didn't know, and the more he learned, the more it all looked like something out of a novel.

     "We didn't get him because he's clever." Lestrade looked away from the papers once more and his eyes met Sophie's. "He's been on the watch list of every intelligence there is in the whole United Kingdom and probably some other police forces around the globe, but he is too cunning. He was bright before he met Moriarty and you can only imagine what the–"

     "Wait, Moriarty?" Lestrade tried not to sound exasperated, but honestly, it was impossible. Because there was that guy. Again.

     "It is a very long story," said Sophie, and she also seemed to be very unhappy about the way that discussion had taken. "And I promise you I'll enlighten you later if you wish, but here's a quick summary: after leaving the Army, Moran was court-martialed, but he escaped prison through a breach he found on the case they were building against him. He fixed residence in London, but it was just so he could keep his outwardly “respectable” image because he knew the British Government would keep a close eye on him. However, despite him knowing he was on our watch list, he got involved with Moriarty, who probably heard about his little adventures in the Army, as well as his skills and recruited him. But you already know Moriarty and know how much of an elusive little fuck he was, so I'll skip that part. Moran quickly became Moriarty's right hand and was his chief of staff for a while. We didn't have anything solid and substantial to get him, but his mark was on every single 'job' that he executed, and when I mean executed, I _am_ talking about assassinations. The MI6 has a list of aliases we believed to be Moran's, but there were more. There _are_ more. And the DNA connects him to the case because it puts him right on the roof top of the building directly across from Adair's residence."

     By the time Sophie finished with her supposed “quick summary”, both Graham and Lestrade were openly staring at her; mostly because she barely even breathed throughout that whole speech, but Lestrade couldn't tear his eyes away because she had just dumped a heavy load of information and his brain was having quite the hard time assimilating everything. And while Mycroft Holmes seemed to be immune to that, the way his eyes glinted and the corners of his lips pulled lightly showed he was more than slightly amused by all of that.

     No one said a word for a few brief moments and Lestrade tried to grasp everything that had just been disclosed to him. But he didn't have time to really process everything because only a few more seconds elapsed and there was Graham speaking again.

     "That actually pretty much covers it all," he said, still quite impressed. "But about his connection to the case, there's also the bullet that was recovered from Mr Adair's body. We analysed that as well and we also made a digital reconstruction of the projectile. The result was a positive match to six other cases, including the death of Mrs Stewart, in–"

     "Lauder," Lestrade stated blankly. "Yes, I've heard about it already... but how did you analyse the bullet? It was–" But the Detective Inspector already knew the answer to that question, and he stood right in front of him, looking as casual as ever. "Never mind. Mrs Stewart's death. Okay, go on."

     "After the event of her death, several days later, we learnt that Seth McLaggen had been to Lauder, and according to our intelligence, McLaggen was one of Moran's aliases."

     This time, they all gave Lestrade some time to take in and digest every bit of information they had all but poured upon him. Seconds stretched into minutes and Sophie, Graham and Mycroft simply exchanged some glances, simply observing the man go through the pages of the file and stopping every now and then to consider.

     It was only about three minutes later that the silence was broken.

     "All right," Lestrade said as he closed the file. "So, Sebastian Moran is the murderer we're looking for. But you do realise that we still don't have anything solid to arrest him, right? We can probably hold him for some time, but he would be out as soon as possible. I mean, the DNA you got is great but that's easily dismissible; we don't have the murder weapon and it doesn't look like we can trace it back to him... all we really have are theories. As a case, it doesn't look very promising if I'm honest."

     Lestrade looked at everyone else in the room. He tried to gauge their reactions and how they would respond to that and, frankly, it was almost like he hadn't just said that they basically had nothing on the man. But realisation came at last.

     "You're not looking at it as a case, are you?" It was a question, but he already knew the answer. In fact, he must have known ever since the moment his phone rang and it was Mycroft Holmes on the other end, but only now Lestrade accepted it. "All right. So, what am I really doing here, then?"

     It was up to Mycroft to answer that question, of course.

     "The death of Mr Ronald Adair is an important affair, and since you are the head of the investigation, you will make the arrest. The Scotland Yard will take the credit and this case will come to an end. As for details, we will provide you with that. But once you have Sebastian Moran, he shall be handed to the MI6."

     Even though Mycroft's words left no space for questioning, Lestrade seemed to think about the matter. He stood in silence, looking fixed at some random point on the spotless ground of the room until he finally nodded. "All right."

     In all honesty, odds were that Mycroft already knew how that meeting would go; he probably knew that Lestrade would agree to his terms, but still, the small smile that pulled at Mycroft's lips when he heard the detective inspector's agreement showed that he was pleased. Immensely.

     "Very good. There are some men outside who will accompany you when you make the arrest."

     "And will personally escort him to Vauxhall Cross, isn't it right?" And maybe this whole thing had been too much for Lestrade because those were words that he wouldn't have uttered; at least not to the British Government embodied. But Mycroft didn't seem to mind. If anything, he found it to be rather amusing if the small smirk he was showing again was anything to go by.

     "Okay then," Lestrade said as he placed the file on the desk behind him. "I think the sooner we deal with it, the better. Hunter?"

     He was ready to leave and turned to the woman beside him, after all, they were working together on this case. But Sophie didn't seem to be ready to follow. At least not yet.

     "Oh, you can go ahead. I need a moment to speak with Mycroft."

     Sophie's voice was completely devoid of emotions; as was the whole of her countenance, in fact. Looking at Sophie gave Lestrade the impression of looking at a blank canvas. And when he glanced at Mycroft and noticed the intense look in his blue eyes, he quickly decided that he should do as Sophie was saying and not even entertain the idea of arguing.

     "All right," he said as he made to the door. It didn't surprise him to see Graham right behind him. "I'll head to the station and set everything. Call me, in case..."

     But that was a sentence that died before it was complete and Lestrade shut the door closed behind him as he hurriedly left.

     The office was immerse in complete quietude for some time after Graham and Lestrade left. Neither Sophie nor Mycroft moved one muscle. They simply stood there facing one another. Things between them were too familiar for them to try to ascertain each other's thoughts. They didn't have to try. They knew. And it was that certainty, that level of proximity and closeness which was developed through years that made the atmosphere inside Mycroft's office go from strange and strict to something less heavy, a bit less stressful.

     Raising her head a little, Sophie took a deep breath and let her shoulders drop, releasing some of the tension that had been building there.

     "So," she said, and her voice sounded calm, soft, even. "Will you tell me the whole of it now, or are we going to play this game for a little longer?"

     A full on smile appeared on Mycroft's face. "You've noticed."

     Sophie smirked in return, but she wasn't exactly pleased. "Yes, I have noticed. But you knew I would."

     "I had hopes, indeed."

     "Well?"

     Then, Mycroft took a deep breath and straightened up a little further. And when he did so, Sophie felt the muscles of her neck, shoulders and back tense again. He hadn't said one word yet and she already knew she had been right all along. Why she felt nervous when she stepped inside that dark and gloomy office, and why she felt a bit reluctant in asking Mycroft what he'd been keeping from everyone. It wasn't for nothing; it was all justified.

     "We have a problem in our hands," he announced, and even though he sounded calm and collected as always, his words crawled into her skin and wrapped themselves around her heart.

     "Yes," she said unconvincingly. "Adair's murder and... Moriarty's handy man. That's exactly what we have been discussing, if–"

     But she didn't get to finish what she had started. Mycroft interrupted her unceremoniously.

     "Colonel Moran, yes." Then, his voice turned deeper and more serious, as did his blue eyes. "But I am not talking solely about Lestrade's case..."

     Sophie closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Because the way Mycroft said _Lestrade's case_ , that could only imply one thing.

     She let out a heavy sigh.

—

The merry sound of Mary's rich laughter reached John and he couldn't help but smile with her; and as he did so, as he indulged himself in that moment of mirth and joy, John couldn't help but think how long has it been — how long has it been since he had gone out, been to a restaurant for something more than just the food... how long has it been that he'd been to a date. Because that's what that was, wasn't it? A date? Two people who liked each other having fun? Because he liked Mary, and he was having fun. And then he also couldn't help but wonder: how long has it been since he really had fun? Not just forced interactions in which he simply pretended to be amused in order to avoid unwanted queries such as if he were all right, how was he holding on, anything of the sort.

     Blinking a couple of times, John disentangled himself from his thoughts and brought his attention back to the blonde woman who was still giggling. It was getting a bit morbid inside his head and, honestly, why get caught into that when there was something a lot more interesting right in front of him?

     Shifting a bit in his seat, John noticed how Mary's cheeks had acquired a darker shade of pink; maybe from the wine but more likely from the burst of laughter she had tried so hard to keep at bay, but failed big time. Funny how they had met only earlier that day, though it felt like he had known her for much longer.

     "Oh, god..." John watched as Mary took the table napkin from her lap and placed it next to her plate. "If you excuse me, I need to go to the loo."

     Their eyes met and John was slightly breathless when he noticed how her eyes glittered with the flicker of the candle that they pushed to the side of their table and with merriment.

     Then Mary's lips turned up and a bright smile flourished, adorning the delicate features of her dainty face. And he forgot how to breathe altogether.

     "Yeah," he breathed. "Of course. Of course..."

     Her smile turned into a full grin and she gracefully stood from her seat with a quiet "I'll be right back."

     John glanced over his shoulder. He followed her retreating form and caught her glance when she also looked back at their table. It seemed to John that the small smile that had settled on his lips and taken root in his heart was something quite permanent; and it was a good feeling. He didn't remember feeling this light, this good, this... _happy_ in ages.

     But all of a sudden, there was a shift on the atmosphere that surrounded John and he tensed up; his muscles and all his nervous endings were tense like fiddle strings. It was like a heavy dark cloud had come to rest right above his head, casting a shadow upon him.

     Speaking of shadows, John's eyebrows furrowed when he glanced down at his place. He didn't imagine it. There really was a shadow, and he saw it quite clearly on the shiny white surface of the porcelain plate. And there was something oddly familiar about that shadow. Something...

     He took a deep breath, but it caught in his throat and he gripped his table napkin until his knuckles turned white. It was like there was a pair of hands wrapped tightly around John's throat and he couldn't get enough oxygen into his lungs, his cells, into his brain. And he was probably starting to hallucinate.

     Because that had to be it. A hallucination. That shadow. That faint scent that he was so familiar with and that haunted him for weeks. That creeping sensation of being observed...

     But it was nonsense. It had to be. So, pushing all those stupid feelings and sensations aside, John shifted his gaze from his plate to the space right next to him and they landed on a pair of shoes.

     Black leather. Lace-up. Yves Saint Laurent shoes.

     John's heart started to beat a bit faster in his chest. It couldn't be. Anyone could have those shoes.

     Despite the growing anxiety, John kept assessing the figure that was standing right beside him.

     Black, tailored trousers.

     It could just be a waiter.

     Black jacket that seemed to match the trousers.

     White dress shirt.

     Waiter.

     Bow tie.

     Definitely a waiter.

     But then his eyes landed on the man's face, and John couldn't help but feel as if the solid ground beneath him had just turned into something less stable, more volatile. The whole of John's world was quickly veering out of his control and he gripped the edge of the table, hoping that that piece of furniture would keep him grounded; wouldn't let him be dragged into that vortex of impossibilities.

     "Hello, John." And then he spoke. His grave voice, so calm and casual, like nothing had ever happened, like the last nine months _had not_ happened. And John felt like he was about to be sick. Because _he_ shouldn't be there. He _couldn't_ be there. And yet, there he was.

     The one and only.

     Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Feedback is loved.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which I am in no way associated with (I wish I was, though). No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> This story has not been Beta read and because English isn't my first language, I apologise in advance for any mistakes you might find here.
> 
> Just one thing before we start: I don't know how many of you people have seen Sherlock Series 3 (I have, by the way, and I loved it so much, I am still a bit hyper because of it and when I say a bit I mean a lot xD) but I just wanted to tell you all that I will not follow the events of the show; at least not for this story. From the moment I started 'Liberty', I knew what I wanted to do and kind of how to get there, and while things don't always follow the script, I plan on sticking with my ideas; I'm a bit fond of them. However, I must let you all know that things may get a bit similar to The Empty Hearse every now and then because, well, my ideas were a bit similar to some events from the show. But that's it. Now, on with the story.

** Chapter Eighteen **

 

To say that John was rendered speechless by that sudden ‘apparition’ was the understatement of the century.

     He had lost count of how many times he had wished for Sherlock not to be dead, how many times he had hoped to see that face again, and when he finally believed he had come to terms with his best friend's demise, he just...

     "You don't look so well."

     That grave baritonous voice reached his ears once more and, for a split second, John thought that hearing that voice again was better than not hearing it at all. But then he thought about the day Sherlock fell to his supposed death, and all the days that followed. He remembered sitting on his armchair at Baker Street alone, with nothing but his grief and his dark thoughts to keep him company—a very bad company. He remembered how hard it had been for him to move on with his life, to finally accept that, in spite of his hopes and wishes, Sherlock wasn't going to return, and as those things came to mind, John quickly dismissed that first thought and held onto the second one — that he was not pleased. Not in the slightest. Not at all.

     And John felt something burning inside, like his blood had suddenly become acid. Because, really? He didn't look so well? Well, no shit! How the hell could he be _well_ when the person he trusted the most lied to him, deceived him, allowed him to go through the darkest of all paths completely alone? No. John was not well. He was far from well. He was mad. He was angry. He was burning with hatred.

     Closing his eyes, John tried to breathe slowly and, for the first time, he wished for that to stop. All of that, he just wanted it to stop. Because Sh– because his best friend was dead. Gone. Buried. Six feet under. Not returning.

     But when he opened his eyes once again, he didn't disappear. He was still there.

     "You..." John's voice was barely above a whisper, a menacing and harsh whisper.

     He clenched his teeth and his hand that had reached for the table was now grasping the tablecloth. His knuckles were turning white and he was taking short and shallow breaths, and as he regarded Sherlock, John could read in his features that he didn't understand his reaction—his far from cheerful reaction. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed and his eyes had narrowed a little; he was trying to comprehend the reason why John was so upset, and it made John all the more mad. That dense little shit!

     Letting go of the table cloth, John abruptly pushed back the chair he'd been sitting and rose from his seat, and it wasn't without struggle that he managed not to punch Sherlock right there, in the middle of that restaurant like he would have wanted to. Instead, John held his ground, and the main reason he did so was because somehow, through his clouded mind and narrowed view, he saw Mary. Or more so, he recognised the lavender blouse, the jeans, the short blonde hair... and then he heard her voice. Her soft voice carried through the space between them, reached his ears, made its way into his troubled mind and eased some of the anger that was quickly building up. Rising to epic proportions.

     "John?" She was concerned. Mary. John could tell by the way his name came out of her lips and how she carefully approached their table that she was concerned. "What is going on?"

     But John wasn't the only one distracted by the petite blonde. No. Sherlock looked over his shoulder when he heard someone speaking to the man standing right in front of him.

     John couldn't see the look on his face, but he was quite sure Holmes was reading Mary; just like he did to everyone he ever came across. And not for the first time, it bothered him.

     It bothered him because who did he think he was? To waltz back into John's life like nothing had happened and go about with his stupid deductions, conceiving an idea about everyone? It didn't matter if it was the correct idea, John simply didn't like it. Not anymore.

     And he liked it even less when Sherlock spoke, so stupidly casual, "You must be Mary."

     In spite of his distaste, John couldn't help but frown at those words. Surely Sherlock was pretty observant and all of that, but how did he know her name? But apparently, that was something that Mary also found surprising because he noticed Mary's bewildered glance when their eyes met. He didn't say anything, though. He didn't know what to say.

     "Yes," she replied hesitantly. "I am... Mary. And you are?" But realisation came the second she asked the question and the bewilderment was instantly replaced by disbelief. "No..."

     "Oh, yes."

     "But you died!" Mary cried, looking at John once again.

     "No, I did not," Sherlock said, mildly annoyed, but John didn't notice that. He wasn't paying attention to him anymore.

     Reaching for his wallet, he left some money on the table before bypassing Sherlock and taking Mary's hand in his.

     "Come on," he said simply and flatly.

     "But–" The blonde tried to protest, but was cut shortly when John gave her hand a squeeze. Their eyes met and it was obvious that she could see his turmoil; he couldn't hide it, and, frankly, he didn't want to try. The only thing he wanted was to get the hell out of there.

     Muttering a simple, "all right", Mary followed after John. They didn't go very far, though. They've taken only a couple of steps towards the exit when Sherlock managed to reach them.

     "John, wait–" Sherlock's hand touched John's shoulder.

     If the youngest Holmes was just half as good with people as he was with facts and data, he would have known better. He would have read all the signs he was giving and he would have known that, considering the circumstances, touching John was the last thing he should do. It didn't even matter that it had been really just a soft touch, only so that John would acknowledge him and not run away. He simply shouldn't have done that. What he should have done however was to have listened to Sophie when she warned him about John and how upset he was, or maybe he should have listened to his brother when he told him that there was a great possibility that his return wouldn't be a merry occasion... But he had not.

     It all happened quite fast.

     Letting go of Mary's hand, John turned around and was met with Sherlock's big blue eyes looking right at him. He seemed to be about to say something, but the words died on his lips when John's hands grabbed the front of his dress shirt.

     Never mind the fact that John was several inches shorter than Sherlock, he still managed to drag the dark-haired man through the length of the room until they reached an empty table.

     Even though he wasn't exactly seeing anything of what was happening around him, John knew all eyes were on them and he couldn't bring himself to care. His eyes were locked onto the man in front of him, and he could tell he was taken by surprise. That had to be a first, and if things were different, John might have enjoyed having surprised the man.

     But it didn't last long, and a few moments later, it was clear that Sherlock had finally understood that his acts, all of them, came with a cost. John heard it when he spoke his name—well, he saw his lips forming the letters of his name more than he actually heard him saying anything for the only sound he was registering was the blood pumping in his ears and his own ragged breathing—but he didn't show any signs that he may have had acknowledged that.

     He kept holding onto Sherlock's shirt with his right hand while he clenched the other into a tightly closed fist, and before Sherlock could say anything else, John threw the punch. And part of him intended on keep doing that, keep hurting Sherlock for all the pain and grief and all the hurt his faked death had inflicted on him but he did not.

     Amidst of his anger, his clouded judgment and his need to lash out, John became aware of the commotion he was causing and he heard the distinct cry of a familiar voice, calling out his name. Then two pairs of held him by the shoulders and pried Sherlock's shirt from his grip.

     His chest heaved rapidly with heavy and shallow panting, his left hand hurt a bit, but he didn't resist. John allowed being pulled away and, as crude as it could be, he felt slightly better when he looked at Sherlock and noticed the blood trickling down his chin from a cut on the right side of his lower lip and from his nose. So the bastard bled. And it was red, like everyone else. Good.

     "Oh, my God, John..."

     Averting his eyes from the man who had hurt him, John focused on the woman right next to him. Mary got to him in a second.

     She was visibly worried and John felt his hear dropping a little because he was responsible for that. They had come to this restaurant to have a nice and pleasant dinner and all of this happened. In his defence, he wasn't planning on getting on a fight—a fight with someone who should be _dead_ —but he couldn't help but feel guilty about it.

     He was still dwelling with all those troubling thoughts when Mary took his left hand in hers. He felt her nimble fingers brush over his sore knuckles and John felt worse. He tried to pull his hand from hers, but she held his wrist and didn't let him.

     " _Let_ me see it," she said sternly, looking right into John's blue eyes. And he read what she wasn't saying with words but he didn't say anything about it. It wasn't like he had to because she knew. It should be written all over his face now; his anguish, his agony, everything he tried so hard to avoid for months on end.

     But in spite of that, John found it in him to glance at Sherlock once more, and if he didn't know better, he would've said that Sherlock seemed... astonished.

     Yeah, right. Astonishment and Sherlock were two things that rarely combined so John pushed all those thoughts aside as he shook his head and turned his attention back to Mary; she was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart at the moment.

     "Seems you didn't break anything," spoke Mary, softly and quietly.

     Also, wrongly.

     That wasn't true, but John didn't want to think about it. In fact, he wanted to stop thinking altogether because his mind was quickly becoming a dark, gloomy and very troublesome place. He didn't want to think about anything anymore and he didn't want to be there anymore, so he simply took her hand in his and made to the door again.

     "Come," he said lowly so she was the only person who could hear him. "Let's get out of here."

     Hesitantly, Mary followed after John, but before they left the restaurant, she glanced over her shoulder and noticed that Sherlock, in spite of everything that had just transpired, still intended to follow them.

     Their eyes met and she shook her head a couple of times; it didn't surprise her much when he stopped on his tracks. Considering everything she ever heard about the consulting detective, he probably understood what she was silently telling him—that that was not the best time and he should give John a moment. But what did surprise her was the look of resignation in his eyes when he gave her a short nod.

     Then Mary walked out of the place with John right in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she wondered how she could try to fix that. Because it was clear as day that things between those two needed to be fixed.

—

Despite John's initial reluctance, he returned to Baker Street.

     That was, by far, the last place he wanted to be, but when Mary looked at him with those big blue eyes of hers and asked him to come with her because it didn't seem right for him to be alone after everything that happened, he couldn't find it in him to say no, so he found himself sitting on the large and comfortable ivory sofa, in Mary's living room.

     "Here it is," said the blonde woman as she emerged from the kitchen with a tray in her hands that she placed on the coffee table, right in front of John. "Eat something."

     John glanced at the two beers, the fish fingers and chips that Mary had sworn were for Sophie. The last meal John had was a while ago, but food was the last thing he had in mind. Blinking a couple of times, John rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands and looked at his shoes. "Thanks, Mary, but I–"

     "Please, John," she interrupted him, shaking her head. "You haven't eaten in a very long time. Please."

     John raised his head and met her deep blue eyes regarding him intently. Her lips were slightly pursed and even now he could read concern on her beautiful features. He let out a soft sigh and did as she was asking; he took the smallest of all fish fingers and took a bite. The taste of the food in his mouth reminded him that he actually was hungry; but the distress he was feeling still overpowered it.

     Mary had occupied the seat right beside John and watched as he chewed on his food and stared into the space, paying attention at nothing in particular. He looked troubled. He looked hurt. Scratch that; he _was_ hurt.

     "John..." Mary began lightly, but didn't go much further. As soon as she called his name, John raised his head.

     "How could he do that?" He blurted out. "How... How could he bloody do that? To me?! That fucking ass–"

     As abruptly as it had started, John's heated vent ended. He clenched his teeth, as if trying to keep the words from rolling out of his mouth and his eyes grew wider and a bit softer, like he had just noticed who he was talking to and how rude he had been.

     John was on the verge of apologising, Mary knew it for she had seen that look before, only not from John. One other thing that Mary knew was that John needed to get it all out of his chest, so she offered him a small smile, tilted her head a little to the right and muttered, "Hole?"

     Her attempt to ease the atmosphere worked wonders and she even saw a ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of John's lips moments before he looked down at his shoes again.

     "Look, John," she said and made a bold move and placed her hand upon John's forearm. "You're angry and hurt, and I get that. I really do. But, John, anger is harmful. Anger is an acid that can–"

     "Do more harm to the vessel where it's stored than anything on which it's poured."

     Mary's eyes widened a little when he finished her sentence. "Exactly. How did you...?"

     "Sophie," John said, and Mary replied with a soft "oh". That explained everything and then some. "Earlier today she told me those exact same words."

     "Of course she did," Mary said absently, an inconspicuous smile playing with the corners of her lips.

     Or maybe it wasn't inconspicuous at all because when she reached for the small stack of chips on the tray, she felt John's eyes on her and then he asked, "what do you mean?"

     Holding a chip between her fingers, Mary sat back and looked at John. He didn't seem half as angry as he seemed curious now, and she considered that a progress. But she didn't get to enjoy that change for too long because a few moments later, Mary realised what she'd done.

     "Oh. She didn't tell you... did she?"

     "Tell me what?"

     Mary let out a heavy sigh. "I should've know..."

     It seemed to John that the blonde wasn't going to tell him anything; all of a sudden, Mary’s features acquired a grim look and she was biting on her lips. That was a bit odd. What could it possibly be that Sophie had not told him and that caused such reaction from Mary? But before John could start over thinking things, he heard Mary's voice again. It was soft, but a bit serious, and John found himself paying close attention to her.

     "I don't know if I should be saying this, but... a few years ago, Sophie lost someone. Someone who was very important to her; someone she loved so dearly... And for a long time she was very, very angry. Of course, she was sad and hurt and so many other things... but mostly, she was angry. And that feeling, that anger that she held inside, it nearly killed her. And I don't mean it figuratively; I mean it quite literally."

     The whole of Mary's demeanour sobered up and, without noticing, John straightened up. He didn't know about that; not that he thought should have. John and Sophie knew each other for less than twenty four hours so it was pretty obvious as to why the brunette detective hadn't told him anything about that—it was her private life. But now that Mary told him that little information about her, everything made sense; why she was so kind and gentle, even when he wasn't very kind or gentle. Well, perhaps _especially_ when he wasn't kind or gentle now that he thought of it. It was because she knew what he was going through, and she was helping him.

     "When you said that Sophie had told you that, I just assumed she had _told you_ ; because she knows how harmful it can be. To hold onto that feeling. To hold onto anger."

     "No," John said quietly. Blinking a couple of times, John averted his glance from Mary. He looked at his hands as he thought about what Mary had just said. That Sophie had lost someone, and it had nearly killed her. "No, she did not..."

     "John, please, you can't tell Soph–"

     Turning his head, John met Mary's wide and worried eyes fixed on him. Before she could finish what he knew she was going to ask him, John said a very reassuring, "I won't." And he meant it. He really wouldn't tell Sophie that he knew about her loss. He would do what she had done to him; respect her space and offer her a helping hand in case she needed. "I won't say anything... don't worry."

     The blonde smiled sympathetically at John and he found himself smiling in return. There was something about Mary that John simply couldn't resist, even now. Especially now. Because the thing was: she was right; he was angry. He was angry like he hadn't been in months and still, somehow she could make him smile and laugh and forget about his worries, and she made it all so easily, so seemingly effortlessly it amazed John and also scared him, both at the same time.

     How did she do that was one of the questions that kept echoing in his head as he stood there, contemplating the beholder of such angelic beauty. The other question he kept asking himself over and over again was: could she be the one? That was hardly the time or the place and he knew it, but John had searched for someone for so long, and now, now that he wasn't really looking, Mary came into his life. To be fair, she didn't exactly came into his life—she all but barged in, turned everything round and, with the most magical of all smiles, settled herself right in the very centre of his life. In just some few hours she did all that and she managed to keep him grounded when things threatened to veer out of his control. She did that. How? John had no idea. Maybe it was just her; maybe it was just a part of who she was. Because even though John didn't know her well enough, he knew that Mary wasn't like anyone he had ever met. She was something else. Something special.

     "So..."

     Mary spoke again, and her soft voice made John snap out of his mind and return to the present time.

     "So," John echoed her conversation starter. He blinked a couple of times and tried to appear casual, desperately hoping that she couldn't read on his face what he had been thinking just moments ago.

     "I think you already know what I'm gonna say," said Mary and John straightened his back.

     "That I should forgive him?" He didn't mean to sound defensive, but he did. "How could I–"

     "Talk," Mary interrupted him unceremoniously. "I was going to say that you should talk. Although forgiveness does sound good as well."

     John shook his head. "I don't know if I can do that, Mary. I don't know if I can do _any_ of that. Or if I want to. I mean, he could've just _told me_! I was his friend... in fact, I was his _only_ friend, his own words; so he could have told me he wasn't dead, but did he? No, he did not. Instead, he let me believe he was gone. For months! For months he let me think he was dead, that bloody inconsiderate dick." John made a small pause and took a deep breath. Then, his eyes searched for Mary's and he was slightly surprised to see such serene expression on her face because he had said more than he had planned to and it hadn't been a smooth conversation. Actually, it hadn't even been a conversation to begin with because a conversation implies people talking—two people or more; what happened there was more like an unplanned soliloquy from John.

     And he would have apologised for talking like that and for bothering her with something that she probably wasn't even interested in; but she kind of looked interested. Or at least she didn't seem to mind him talking like that, and so he continued. Taking a deep breath, John continued.

      "I have... I've been to his funeral, Mary, and I grieved. For so long, I felt this... I visited his grave and I talked— to a bloody headstone, I talked! I asked him... I asked him _not_ to be dead."

     "And you got it." Mary slid closer, and when she took John's hands in hers, he looked up and their eyes met. And in Mary's eyes, those blue eyes that shone like two big sapphires, they were glowing with something else—something deeper. "Look, I will not pretend I know what you're feeling right now, because I obviously don't. But I do understand that you must be feeling hurt and deceived and– and betrayed... And for all I care, you are entitled to feel it all. But, John, do you understand the chance that you've been given? You asked for him not to be dead and you got it. You got it, John. Your friend is not–"

     "Friend?"

     "John..."

     "Friends do not do this kind of thing to people. They simply don't."

     "Things are hardly that black and white, John. We all wish they were, but they are not. And I think you need to talk to Sherlock. You said you wanted to know why, so ask him why. Perhaps there was a reason–"

     "A reason? Mary."

     "Yes, a reason. It may not even be a good one but I think you should talk to him. Ask him why. _Tell_ him what it did to you. Let everything out of your chest."

     "And forgive him?"

      Unlike their conversation up until now, Mary didn't answer instantly. No. Instead, she straightened her back a little, took a breath and, much to John's astonishment, she smiled at him. She did it. She smiled, and John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

     "What?" he asked puzzled. "Why are you smiling? What's there to smile about?"

     Mary's smile grew a little bigger and she said simply, "You."

     "Me?" John was definitely not following anymore.

     "Do you realise it is the second time you say it? _Forgive_?" She asked softly; but she didn't wait for John to answer—she didn't need an answer. "Because it is. And it is all you. I simply suggested that you talked."

     "Yes, but you also suggested that I should let go of the anger..."

     "Indeed I did," Mary conceded. "But that's all I said. But, like I also said, forgiveness is good, John. Not bad."

     "How can I forgive?" John averted his eyes, but then, something occurred to him. Shifting on his seat, John turned round so he was face to face with Mary. "Could you? If it was Sophie and she staged her suicide, leading you to believe she had killed herself, could you forgive her? Could you forgive her for hurting you? Making you suffer? Making you grieve?"

     For some moments, Mary didn't answer; but she didn't look away from him either. She held his gaze and didn't waver under his intense glare.

     "If she ever did something like that," she said after a few seconds. Her voice was low, measured, but she didn't seem affected in the slightest. "There would be a very good reason, which, I would certainly like to know... And I believe that I would be able to forgive her, yes."

     Even though she took some time to think about her answer, John could tell, just by looking at her, that she meant it. And he admired her for that.

     "But the thing about forgiveness," she continued after a moment, and John found himself looking back at Mary. And he was paying very close attention to her words and to everything that was the woman before him in hopes that, maybe he could catch a glimpse of the world through her eyes and, maybe— _just maybe_ —he could stop being angry and hurt and bitter, because he still was.

     "The thing about forgiveness," she repeated herself and John shifted. "Is that it doesn't erase everything that's been done."

     John sat straight and blinked a couple of times when he heard that. At first, Mary's words didn't seem to make much sense, but when he thought about them for a second, they did. Not only they made sense, but it also felt like she was answering a question he hadn't asked nor had he known he wanted to ask.

     "What's done is done, John. There's no changing that. The only thing you can do now is to choose how it is going to be... You know, at some point, we all heard people saying over and over and over again how we needed to forgive our enemies. What we didn't hear is that we also need to forgive our friends every now and then. Sherlock is your friend, John. And I don't know you much, but I don't think you want to throw that away..."

     Blinking a couple of times, John averted his eyes. And as he stared into nothingness, he couldn't help but think about everything that Mary said, and how right she had been. About everything, really. From how he couldn't change what happened to how he didn't want to throw Sherlock's friendship away. She was right. And as realisation washed over him, John also became intrigued.

     "How did you know it?" He blurted out before he could stop himself. "About my... friendship with, uh– Sherlock... how?"

     Mary's face lit up with a smile. "Like I said, you're the one who mentioned forgiving him first, which makes me wonder if you weren't already thinking about it in the back of your mind, but without acknowledging it, or admitting to it..."

     John couldn't hold back a smile. Clever. Mary was one clever woman. John liked it. He liked _her_.

     Speaking of her, John noticed when Mary stood from the sofa and he watched when she crossed the room, into the kitchen. He was helping himself with some chips when her voice carried through the flat.

     "Can I trust you not to destroy my living room?"

     "Destroy your... living room?" That was an unexpected question, John thought. And he was going to ask her why would he destroy her living room when she returned to said room with a leash in her hands; Toby promptly left his place by the sofa, where he'd been lying ever since they got there, and waddled towards her.

     "Are you going out?" It was a stupid question, but John asked anyways.

     "I'm going to take Toby for a walk," Mary replied casually as she hooked the leash to the dog's collar. "I assume you would like some privacy."

     John frowned. "Privacy?"

     "Yes. So that you could talk."

     "Talk?" Pushing his body upwards, John took a step towards the blonde.

     However, before he could ask who he would be talking to if she was going out, Mary reached for the doorknob. His question was instantly answered when he saw the man standing statuesquely on the other side. Sherlock.

     In a split second, whatever lenient feelings that John had experienced while talking to Mary, changed back into not so lenient ones and he breathed sharply when he met Sherlock's eyes. Even though he knew those eyes as friendly ones—and in despite of the conversation he had had with Mary—at that moment, John couldn't think of it as such. He didn't think he felt as angry as he had been, but he was definitely still resentful. Not even the blood stains on his once impeccable white dress shirt were appeasing the feeling. Well, maybe a little...

     It took John a moment to regain full control of his functions, and when he did so, he recognised Mary's voice. She was saying something, but John only caught fragments, like "living room" and "please", and, frankly, he was about to tell Mary to wait that he would go with her or just go and leave that "talk" for some other day, but when he searched for the petite woman, she had already bypassed Sherlock and was heading to the stairs. But before she left, Mary glanced over her shoulder and their eyes met.

     She seemed a little worried—probably about her flat, and John was only now understanding what she meant with not destroying her living room; understandable—, but more than that, she also seemed hopeful, and it became very clear that such emotion was directed to him when she smiled encouragingly at him. And then her mouth described the words "you can do it", and John decided that that was it. He could do it. He could just get it over with and that's what he would do.

     Returning his attention to the man by the door, John took a deep breath. He also clenched his fists and his teeth, and while he didn't notice what he was doing, Sherlock did.

     He also noticed his rigid posture and the way his eyes bore into his; they were hard and cold, nothing like the kind, gentle and more often than not, compassionate eyes that Sherlock remembered. John was upset like Sherlock had never seen him before, and if being punched on the nose hadn't done it before, looking at John now made him suddenly realise the enormity of what he had done.

     "John," Sherlock began. His voice lacked its usual condescending and arrogant tone, and had acquired a much softer tone. One that he almost never used. "I think I owe you an apology..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Reviews are love.

**Author's Note:**

> One more thing that I feel the need to say: Dates. I've done quite the research to get the dates right but I'm still not sure about it for there were some discrepancies (such as, I've found that Sherlock's alleged suicide happened on the 12th of June and it was supposed to be a Sunday, but 12 of June, 2012 was not a Sunday, it was a Tuesday - what) so I don't know.
> 
> So, in case I got anything wrong, I'm sorry. Since it's fiction, I hope you guys don't mind all that much, but if you do (I sure as hell did), feel free to say anything and I'll gladly hear what you have to say :)


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